


O-T-P

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Series: O-T-P: A Saga of Epic True Love and Stuff [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, So Meta I Want to Barf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myrcella, Sansa, and Margaery are fangirls extraordinaire, dying of feels over their one true pairing, a fictional couple written by shy author Brienne Tarth. When the girls realize that Myrcy's Uncle Jaime is sorta kinda like the male half of their OTP, they embark on a completely mad scheme to match Jaime with Brienne to create a real-life, never to be topped, OTP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of JBweek, a love letter fic to fandom, replete with truckloads of meta, train cars of tropes, and ALL TEH THINGS.
> 
> One chapter posts each day, all beta'd by the indomitable Mikki.

 

“Oh gods, it’s happening Margaery. Like, right now. What is breathing? Help me breathe!” Myrcella Baratheon gasped in air.

“I don’t even know! How is this happening _to us_! We don’t even deserve this!” Sansa Stark whimpered.

Margaery Tyrell hated whimpering. “We deserve this more than anybody has ever deserved anything! Shut up, just shut up. It’s happening!”

“You’re right, Marg. I might die. This might make me dead.” Myrcy resigned herself to death by fangirling.

Sansa jumped and pointed. “There she is! She’s there! Oh gods, she’s like a majestic unicorn of wonder! I think my heart might be exploding.”

“Sansa, don’t explode and get blood on her!” Marg demanded.

“She’s so tall…gah.” Sansa leaned against Myrcy for support.

“There’s more to her than being tall, Sansa. Besides, you’re tall.” Myrcy pointed out.

“Yeah, but she’s tall like goddess tall, and I’m tall like stringbean tall.”

“She _is_ a goddess,” Myrcy insisted. “Whoever says she’s ugly is a hater and a troll with eyes made of butt.”

Marg tapped her chin with one finger. “You know, I used to think she wasn’t all that—”

“What? How could you?” Myrcy was incensed.

“Shut up! I _used_ to think she was just sort of tall and maybe kinda freckly, but duh. She’s a goddess.”

“I might forgive you. Maybe.”

“Oh gods, she’s coming over. She’s like ten feet away. I can't even.” Sansa started jumping again.

Myrcy squealed as they all started talking at once. “That’s like two steps for her!”

“I think I’m going to faint. Or barf.”

“My hands are shaking so bad!”

“Oh gods, she’s here!”

An extraordinarily tall woman with a blonde bob strode past the three hyperventilating teenagers. There was something about their group that must have caught her attention on the way into the bookstore, possibly their matching t-shirts with her book cover on them, and as she paused to let the clerk open the door for her, she glanced back and smiled just a tiny bit.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Did that happen? Did that just happen! Help.” Myrcy was knocking on fan-death’s door again.

“I can’t even,” Sansa whispered as if it were a revelation.

Myrcy scrubbed tears from her cheeks. “Dead. I’m dead. I think I puked in my mouth.”

“Those girls are going in ahead of us! Push them! Slap those bitches! We were here first!” Marg shoved them towards the door. “Go, go, go! Move!”

“Oh gods, sign my book! Sign it!” Myrcy waved her hardback prize in the air like a trophy.

The three stumbling fangirls shoved their way into Mormont & Son bookstore to claim a place as close to Brienne Tarth as possible. It was crucial to their existence. They might actually die if they couldn’t get their books and shirts and possibly breasts signed by not only their favorite author, but their favorite person ever to have existed ever. After all, she gave them their O-T-P.

* * *

 

Jaime Lannister loosened his red silk tie as he crossed the foyer of his father’s house. Mansion really, but he’d rather not think of the luxury he’d given up by leaving the family business and living off his own income. He was only there to pick up Myrcella.

The span of golden hued marble on the floor had begun to seem garish. It must be a product of the _old age_ Myrcy frequently accused him of whenever he didn’t understand her slang. These days, thirty-eight felt old.

He didn’t look down as he approached the small parlor in the back of the house where Myrcy liked to bring her friends when she stayed with Tywin. The shrieking laughter of adolescent girls poured from the room despite the closed door, but as he got closer, he heard a few distinct wails mixed in. Someone’s boyfriend must have dumped them. It was a frequent occurrence.

He eased the door open an inch to make sure Myrcy’s shameless friend Margaery wasn’t showing off new underwear again, and when he saw his niece supine on the plush carpet with her arms thrown over her face, he darted inside.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” He knelt beside the golden-haired young girl and laid his palm on her arm to test her temperature.

Margaery Tyrell’s annoying chuckle made him look up. “No, _Uncle Jaime_ , she’s just suffering from a bad case of feels.”

Everything Margaery ever said to him had a distinctly sexual inflection, but he’d given up trying to fend her off with disapproval. Let her have her schoolgirl crush. “Feels? Is this some sort of female problem? Because if this is a female problem, I’m leaving immediately.” He rose from the floor to stand with his hand on a hip.

“No, Uncs, I’m just happy. And sad. All the things.” Myrcy’s sweet voice oozed from beneath her still-crossed arms.

“We were re-reading Chapter Fourteen. It makes you dead.”

Jaime’s head snapped up in surprise as Sansa Stark’s face appeared over the coffee table in front of Myrcy. He hadn’t even seen her there. She, like Myrcy, had drying streams of tears on her cheeks that carried bits of flaking mascara.

He let Myrcy remain on the carpet as she seemed to want and sat on the sofa. “Will one of you kindly explain what’s going on?”

“We met Brienne Tarth today. It’s made us a little crazy,” Margaery volunteered.

“Who?” he asked.

They moved as one, three wide-eyed vengeful angels turning unnerving stares on him. Sansa and Myrcy had even abandoned their places on the floor.

“What do you mean _who!_ Brienne Tarth! The famous author?” Myrcy looked like she might want to spit on him.

“She wrote _The Mighty Fool_? On all the bestseller lists?” Margaery had lost her apparent fancy for him in favor of disdain.

“How do you not know who she is? I can’t even.” Sansa shook her head like a teacher disappointed in her pupil.

Jaime sunk back into the protection of sofa cushions. Teenage girls were utterly terrifying. “I think I’m too old for this.”

Myrcy scrubbed her eyes with her palms and abruptly launched herself onto the sofa next to him, still looking at her friends. “He needs to know. It’s so important, you guys.”

They nodded in unison like bobble-heads.

Myrcy grabbed a dust-jacketed book from the table, its edges clearly warn and the pages loose as it flopped open in her hand. “Uncle Jaime, this book is just…everything really. And the author is just as amazing. She’s our hero.”

Sansa waved her thin arms in circles with no apparent purpose. “She stands for being yourself and not trying to be a supermodel or pop singer and stuff, and she’s this crazy tall elf goddess who hates attention.”

“We met her today at her book signing.” Margaery sighed.

“She signed our books!” Sansa seemed to shake with emotion.

“Well, that seems to be the purpose of a book signing.” Jaime had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“And she signed our shirts, too!” Myrcy stretched out the front of her t-shirt carefully to display the Sharpied signature.

Sansa did the same, and Margaery pulled hers over her breasts and pushed them as far in his direction as she could. He looked away immediately, refusing to be caught for a split second in _that_ situation. He’d speak to Margaery’s grandmother about her if the old woman weren’t so terrifying.

Myrcy shoved the book at his chest. “You _have_ to read it. You just have to!”

“You know reading isn’t really my thing.” Jaime shook his head vehemently, trying to defuse the awkward ambush.

“This is different. It’ll make you want to read every book ever but nothing will ever be as good!” Myrcy insisted.

“Until the sequel comes out!” Sansa reminded.

“A hundred and forty-two days,” Margaery stated off the top of her head with a shrug.

If it meant something positive for Myrcy, he’d have to try. There was obviously something about the book that she needed, a thought that only made him doubt for the millionth time his ability to be an effective guardian.

“All right, then. I’ll read it, but it might take a whi—” Myrcy’s arms wrapped around his neck choked off his words.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You won’t regret it, I swear.”

“And Chapter Fourteen—” a lone tear trickled from Sansa’s eye.

“Yes, I know. Dead.” Jaime chuckled as Myrcy let him go.

She drew back to peer at him with owlish eyes. “It’s the O-T-P chapter. Pretty much everyone agrees.”

“The what now?”

Sansa rested her chin on her palms like a cherub. “O-T-P stands for one true pairing. Two people who are not only meant to be together but are like, mega soul mates.”

“So much soul, like if they only had one soul between them and it got split in half and they can’t even live or breathe until they find the other half again.” Myrcy leaned back on the sofa and sighed.

“Um, I’m probably being obtuse, but aren’t you speaking of fictional characters?” Jaime immediately wished he’d never said such a clearly dimwitted thing. Their withering glares stabbed like knives wielded by angry kittens.

“It’s meta for life, Uncle Jaime,” Margaery hissed. “It’s about love.”

“Everything’s about love.” Sansa sighed the same way Myrcy had.

The girls’ dedication to this… _thing_ seemed a little dramatic, but he supposed it was better for them to obsess over a book and an author than some drug-addicted singer who’d take them backstage at concerts for _fun_.

“Well, um…thank you for enlightening me.”

“Oh gods, we’ve done it, you guys! We’re going to convert him and we get to watch his journey.” Sansa seemed to withdraw into her mind as her eyes grew unfocused.

Margaery, the sort-of put together one until that point, scrunched her face up like a small child too excited to breathe. “He gets to meet Ian on the road, people. He get to see Quil for the first time. I’d cut off my arm to relive that!”

Sansa sighed dramatically, but Myrcy flinched and stole a glance at her uncle’s right arm with its notable absence at the end. He was used to slips of the tongue. They didn’t bother him.

“Gods, you guys. Unsensitive much?” Myrcy cringed.

“I’m so sorry, Uncle Jaime. I didn’t mean it!” Margaery looked like she was about to cry.

“It’s fine, I promise. I’m not offended.” Still, he drew his arm back subconsciously.

“The book will fix it. The book fixes everything.” Sansa sucked in air hard enough to make her nostrils pinch.

Jaime used the moment of silence to gain some semblance of control, rising from the sofa.  “On that note, Myrcy, we need to head home. Your brother shouldn’t have to suffer Mrs. Stokeworth’s company for so long.”

“Ugh, I can’t stand her.” Myrcy stood reluctantly with her precious tome clutched to her chest.

“Housekeepers willing to put up with our situation are not easy to find.”

“Whatever.” Myrcy turned to her friends with a tragic expression. “Oh gods, I don’t want to leave you!”

“Don’t leave us!” Sansa jolted from the carpet and wrapped her arms around Myrcy.

Margaery did the same. “Come stay with me, both of you! Loras has a friend over, too, and we can watch Brienne interviews on ViewTube!”

Myrcy turned a pink face towards Jaime. “Please? Can I?”

“It’s a school night,” he said reluctantly, always hating to say no to either of his charges.

“We all go to the same school. We wouldn’t be late, promise!”

The three girls clung to each other as if the apocalypse were coming. He didn’t have it in him to refuse. “Fine, fine. But, Margaery, I’m calling your house to make sure you don’t stay up all hours.”

Margaery winked. “Why don’t you just stay, too, and watch out for us?”

There was no hope. “Myrcy, please tell your friend that hitting on an old man is not a habit she should engage in.”

“She thinks you’re hot.” Myrcy shrugged.

Margaery just grinned, so he turned to the door to leave in awkward silence.

“Wait, the book!” Myrcy tucked it under his arm with great care and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Say goodnight to Tommen for me. I’ll make him those pancakes for breakfast on Saturday.”

Jaime smiled fondly. “You’re a good big sister to him. Thank you.”

“You’re a good uncle.” Her returning smile was just as fond, and he felt a little pressure release in his chest. He wasn’t _completely_ failing at least. 

* * *

As soon as hot Uncle Jaime had gone home, Margaery pulled out her phone to call the Tyrell driver. “Anyone want to grab a bite before Grandmother makes us go to sleep at an ungodsly hour?”

“Cheesecake,” Myrcy said immediately.

“Obvs.” Margaery texted the driver with her desired route, naming Brienne Tarth’s favorite restaurant for dessert.

She wished beyond reason that Myrcy’s uncle was not old enough to be her father, and not related to one of her two best friends in the whole world. He just _so_ hot.

“Stop thinking about him, Marg. It’s gross.” Myrcy flopped back on the sofa to wait for the car.

“It’s only gross to you because you’re related. Come on, you’ve got to admit he’s fine.”

“He really is,” Sansa added with a small smile.

“You just want to be part of your own O-T-P, and Uncle Jaime looks like an old version of Ian. It’s transference, or whatever Mr. H’ghar says in psychology.” Myrcy grimaced and pulled out her phone.

“It’s seven. Fumblr check.” Sansa also retrieved her phone.

Margaery sighed and tried to banish thoughts of Jaime Lannister’s tweed-covered butt or that one time she’d seen him re-learning to swim in the big pool, all chest muscles and dripping hair.

“You know,” she murmured dreamily as she joined her sister-friends on the sofa to scan Fumblr tags. “He really is like Ian. He’s so broody and tries so hard to take care of people. Brienne Tarth should write a book about old people love and use him as a model.”

Myrcy bolted upright so quickly her phone flew out her hands and landed with thud on the carpet. “Oh my gods, you guys! This is huge, this is like…this is nuclear huge!”

“What is?” Sansa picked up the phone since she liked to keep things neat, but her eyes never left her friend.

“Okay, hear me out…” Myrcy held up her palms to make sure the seriousness was understood. “Brienne Tarth is our favorite person, right?”

“Yes,” Marg and Sansa said simultaneously.

“Right. And who’s our second favorite person?” Myrcy glanced between them before shaking her head. “Not you, Sansa. Sorry, but you have terrible taste after liking my psycho brother and Marg’s gay brother, and your mom’s creepy old man friend. You can’t be trusted in this matter.”

“That’s true.” Sansa nodded.

Myrcy plowed ahead without waiting for Margaery to answer. “Uncle Jaime is definitely my second favorite person, and I think he’s probably yours, Marg, right?”

“No question.” Margaery nodded.

“Well then?” She slapped her hands together, making Sansa jump from the noise.

Sansa looked as clueless as Margaery. Then for Margaery, the clouds suddenly vanished and all was clear blue sky like Brienne Tarth’s glorious eyes. “Oh my gods, Myrcy! Oh my gods!”

Margaery jumped to her feet and started pacing, Myrcy soon joining her.

“I don’t understand!” Sansa nearly wailed, but joined their pacing anyway.

Marg took her by the shoulders. “We’ve never heard anything about Brienne dating anyone, and even if she was, they wouldn’t be as good a person as Uncle Jaime. And Uncle Jaime hasn’t dated anyone since that stupid Pia girl dumped him for the guy at the copy store. So…?”

Sansa’s face transformed from a wide-eyed child to a conniving young woman in an instant. “Oh my gods.”

“Totally!” Myrcy clapped a hand on each of her friend’s shoulders. “It’s perfect. It has to be. It’s going to be amazing.”

“We have to figure out how to do this without making it too obvious. It won’t be easy,” Margaery warned.

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.” Myrcy repeated her grandfather’s often used phrase.

“Gods, you guys, they’re going to be like Ian and Quil. We’re going to have two O-T-Ps. I don’t know if I can cope. I can’t even.” Sansa started breathing harder and harder. She was close to hyperventilating.

Myrcy’s eyes glazed over as she stared off into a dreamy distance. “No Sansa. It’s going to be better than that. They’re real. It will all be real.”

“We’re going to watch their journey.” Margaery’s lip quivered in anticipation.

“This will be the greatest thing we ever do in life, like ever,” Myrcy asserted. “Brienne Tarth and Jaime Lannister, O-T-P.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor, clueless Jaime deals with guardianship and a mysterious author photo while the fangirls extraordinaire move forward with their mad matchmaking scheme.

 

Jaime Lannister tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl on the stand next to his front door. Tommen had made it in camp a few months before, massively proud of his ability to make a simple glazed bowl with stick figure kittens scratched all over it. He hoped Mrs. Stokeworth hadn’t been too hard on him that afternoon, since his nephew was a sensitive boy by nature, made more so from circumstance.

He scrubbed his hand over face, exhausted by responsibility and the just-ended phone call with Olenna Tyrell’s personal assistant. He might never have left his father’s company to strike out on his own if he could have known he’d end up with two of his sister’s three children only months later. He had to make the best of it however, and he knew that most residents of King’s Landing wouldn’t consider a three-bedroom row house, a stable job, and a decent savings account to be a failure. But compared to his family’s insane wealth, it was hard for him to see it as otherwise.

“Tommen? Mrs. Stokeworth?” he called as he moved towards the kitchen in the back.

Tommen’s chubby form shuffled down the stairs in the hall, and the boy smiled at his uncle. “Where’s Myrcy?”

Jaime’s chest clenched a little. Tommen and Myrcy had grown extremely close after their mother, Jaime’s own previously-beloved twin, had lost custody of her children because of her alcoholism and paranoia. She was somewhere in the Summer Isles, with her latest paramour he assumed. After her husband had died, Cersei had gone a bit manic and started a downward spiral that led Jaime to eventually fight for custody of Tommen and Myrcella. He was in no way equipped to be a de facto parent, but he couldn’t stand the idea of letting them live with his own father or with one of their other uncles, Stannis, a severe man with a creepy wife and creepier mistress, or Renly, a mere teenager only two years older than Myrcy.

He’d had no choice really, so now Myrcy and Tommen were his responsibility. He was fortunate that Cersei’s oldest boy had turned eighteen and wanted to be on his own. Joffrey was an absolute terror.

“Myrcy’s staying with her friends, but she said to say goodnight for her.” Jaime crouched to meet Tommen’s gaze.

The boy was only eight, and even more innocent than most children his age. Jaime refused to allow him to be corrupted by anything, especially his father’s ambitions.

“She’s always with her friends,” Tommen complained.

Jaime ruffled his nephew’s hair. “I know it seems that way, but for a girl her age she’s at home quite a lot. She wants to spend time with you, but she needs her friends as well. I’m going to find more friends for you, too. I promise.”

Tommen just smiled a sad smile.

“Where is Mrs. Stokeworth?” Jaime asked, suddenly aware that he hadn’t heard her moving about.

“She left after my apple snack. I don’t think she’s coming back.” Tommen looked at the floor, seemingly embarrassed.

Jaime was furious. “She left you alone for the last three hours?” He checked his phone to be sure, but there was nothing from her that he’d missed.

Tommen’s green eyes clouded with unshed tears. “She said she was a housekeeper, not a nanny, and to tell you not to expect one person to do two jobs, and to stop with the ink spots.”

Despite the difficulty and despite Tommen being too old, Jaime picked him up as if he were half his age and hugged his nephew. “I don’t know what she meant, but don’t cry. She’s an old terror who isn’t worth it, and she damn well shouldn’t expect a final paycheck.”

Tommen leaned his head back and grinned. “You cursed.”

“I did. It’s okay to curse when you’re really angry with an old lady who leaves a child alone in a house. But that’s the only time, okay?”

“Okay. Can we eat now?”

Jaime’s smile fell. “Does spaghetti sound good?”

“We have spaghetti a lot.”

“I know. Tell you what…how about a burger and a shake? If Myrcy gets to hang out with her friends, you get to hang out with me, okay?”

“Yeah! But we can’t stay out too late, ‘cause Ser Pounce doesn’t like being alone.”

“All right, Tom, and we’ll be sure to bring him a few fries.” Jaime set Tommen down, understanding Tommen needed to express his emotions through his cat.

Oh well, Ser Pounce was to Tommen what the _The Mighty Fool_ was to Myrcy. Jaime took the book from his jacket pocket and set it carefully on the hall table, unwilling to risk damage at the restaurant. He’d start it that night and hope to the gods he could find a way to relate better to his niece.

* * *

The house was eerily silent as Jaime settled against his headboard with only his bedside lamp for light.  He felt stupid for cradling a tumbler of whiskey between his knees as he held Myrcy’s book. The feeling increased as he read the blurb describing it as a _young adult novel_ , whatever that was, but he almost let the tumbler fall when he turned to the inside back cover where the author photo was usually located.

Brienne Tarth was not at all what he had expected, at least not what he could see of her. The photo was not the typical head shot against a generic studio background, it was a full length capture on the edge of a cliff with blue waters beyond. The blonde woman shielded her eyes against the sun with one hand as she stared at the camera, making her features hard to distinguish. Jaime could see the woman’s paleness and that the skin on her raised arm was littered with freckles. And her top lip was thinner than the bottom, though both were quite full.

It was the tiny smile lifting one corner of those lips that caught his eye. She seemed to be daring people to object to her unusual photo choice. Or maybe she was trying to draw them in by failing to reveal herself completely. Myrcy had said she was uncommonly tall and didn’t like attention, and while Jaime couldn’t gauge the woman’s height from the photo’s perspective, perhaps she really did just want to hide.

He set the alarm on his phone to make sure he’d get Tommen up in time for school, and if he were honest, himself up in time for a decent start at work. Business management was not exactly the most thrilling career.

He glanced at Brienne Tarth’s photo one more time before beginning the book in earnest, smiling at the wrinkled pages where Myrcy’s fingers had gripped the paper. He could probably even tell her favorites parts from the marks if he really tried.

On the title page, there was a Sharpied signature that matched the one on Myrcy’s t-shirt, but Ms. Tarth had added more here. _Myrcella, There will always be songs to be sung, Brienne Tarth_.

So she was a dreamer then, an overgrown teenager who wrote books for teenagers since she couldn’t be one anymore. Jaime wasn’t sure why he felt so irritated by the simple inscription, possibly because life just wasn’t that simple, and no inspirational message could bandage the wounds his niece and nephew had suffered. He hoped Myrcy wasn’t using this book and its author as an escape to avoid dealing with her pain.

He turned to Chapter One and began the so-called _journey_ those idealistic girls had been so excited about.

* * *

“I think I’ve figured it out.” Margaery plopped into the seat opposite Myrcy and Sansa in the school cafeteria.

“Good, because we’re out of ideas.” Myrcy sucked the last of her coconut water from the rectangular box and grimaced. She hated the stuff, but Fumblr said it helped keep skin clear.

Sansa twirled her long red hair between delicate fingers. “Let’s hear it. I just want them to get together already so they can kiss and have babies.”

Marg smirked. “I’m more interested in the bit between the kissing and babies.”

“Of course you are, and ew! My uncle, remember?”

Marg shrugged. “Anyway, your birthday is coming up. Uncle Jaime already knows how much you love Brienne, so what if Sansa and I convince him that you’d like nothing better than to meet her again as a birthday present? Like, at a tea or a dessert or something?”

“Um, I _would_ like nothing better than that. And stop calling him that! He’s not your uncle.”

“It’s kinda sexy!”

“Gross.”

“Anyway. It’ll work, because it’s not a lie.” Margaery leaned closer, gathering them together conspiratorially. “Sansa and I will write to her manager with your sob story, and then we’ll get Uncle Jaime to do it, too, but separately. I’ll even pay for it if they ask for a fee.”

“I can’t let you do that, Marg! You already give me half my clothes!” Myrcy turned red in embarrassment.

“I give Sansa clothes, too, and she can afford them herself. I like to.”

“It’s true, she does.” Sansa smiled at her friends.

“Besides, your grandfather is stupid for shutting you out of your trust fund. You shouldn’t have to wait ‘til you’re twenty-one.” Margaery sneered at the totally stupid rule.

“That’s just how it is, and Uncle Jaime gets us what we need.”

“Oh, I know. It’s not his fault. But you see, that’s why Brienne will have to say yes! She’s going to feel sorry for you because of your story, and she’ll want to come for your birthday!”

“Isn’t that sort of using her, though?” Sansa was hesitant as she usually was when their harebrained schemes were hatched.

“Maybe, but it’s for her own good. I mean, we want her to get laid and fall in love with your perfect knight-in-shining-armor uncle.” Margaery sighed.

Myrcy grinned. “Maybe not in that order.”

“Whatever. The point is that she’ll come if your friends _and_ your uncle ask. And has he even said what he thinks of the book yet?” Margaery sucked down her own coconut water with an equal grimace to Myrcy’s. “Gods, this stuff is gross.”

“He’s still reading it.” Myrcy pouted.

Sansa seemed shocked. “It’s been three days!”

“He’s slow. I wanted to let him finish before I talked to him about it.”

“That’s good.” Margaery tapped her chin. “Even if he’s a nonbeliever and doesn’t get it right away, we can convince him. Get him interested in Brienne. Make him watch her ViewTube interviews so he can see how cute she is when she’s all shy and awkward.”

“Ooh, show him Fumblr! All those gif sets will get him excited to meet her for real!” Sansa scrolled on her phone with both thumbs. “I’ll tag the ones you can start with as _hashtag Jaime x Brienne_.”

“I have all those, and he’ll see the tags.”

“Shut up. I want to reblog.”

“That’s valid.” Myrcy turned back to Margaery. “When will you write her manager? Should I start tonight with the plan or wait ‘til you talk to him?”

“All the things! Sansa, you’re better with words than either of us. You write up the note, and then we’ll call him tonight. Tell us when he’s free so he can’t get out of it.”

“Gods, I’m so excited. If she comes, we’ll see her again in like, two weeks, and we’ll watch them meet, and it’s going to be glorious!” Myrcy pressed her palms to her heated cheeks.

Sansa immediately started tapping phrases out on her phone. “I can’t even.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for all the love for yesterday's chapter :-) It made me squee so much I'm ded. Mikki beta'd, because she is awesome.
> 
> Next up, a late show interview, a Jaime reaction vid, and advancement of the scheme.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcy forces hot Uncle Jaime to watch Brienne's only late night talk show interview. Astonishing eyes and expanses of leg make an impression.

 

Jaime regarded his grinning niece with suspicion. Myrcy just stood there with gleaming eyes and all her teeth showing.

“What is this thing you’re doing?” he asked waving his hand at her, absolutely knowing he’d regret it.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“What do you want?” he prodded as he crossed his arms in protection. “You definitely want something.”

She pouted.

She was joking, he knew, but there was too much of Cersei in her face at that moment. “If you want something, or preferably _need_ something, ask me, Myrcy. You don’t need to ease me into it.”

She gave up at once and peered directly at him. “Are you done reading yet? I want to talk about the book.”

“Almost. I’ve got a few chapters left.” He worked to maintain a completely neutral tone so he wouldn’t give away how much he was actually enjoying the stupid novel.

“Gods, Uncle Jaime, _how_! I don’t even know. Just finish already.”

“I will! I am, tonight. Promise.”

“Fine, whatever.” She grabbed his hand and led him to the living room where she had her laptop open on the coffee table. She plopped on the couch and made him sit next to her. “I can’t wait anymore. Just watch this and tell me Brienne Tarth isn’t the most adorable, nerd-awkward, special angel ever.”

One brow rose of its own volition. “Please tell me you didn’t say that aloud when you met her.”

“Obviously not, duh. But it was hard.”

“Keep working on that. I don’t want to find out you’ve had a restraining order issued against you.” He sighed at the difficulty of guardianship and having to worry about stupid things he’d never had to worry about before.

“I won’t. If anyone _accidentally_ got one, it would be Marg.” Myrcy was unapologetic as she navigated to ViewTube.

“That’s true. What a relief.”

“By you.”

“What?”

Myrcy found the video she wanted and let it load for a moment. “She’d get a restraining order making her stay away from you, but that won’t last much longer.”

“Well, that’s…good.” He felt dubious, but then he always felt dubious when a Tyrell was involved.

“Just watch! Oh gods, I love her so much.” Myrcy sighed melodramatically.

She’d made the video full-screen, and the logo and blaring saxophone of a late night talk show appeared for a moment. Some hyperactive host bounced on his feet in a too-tight suit, gushing about his excitement that Brienne Tarth, glittering new bestselling author had decided to make her first television appearance on his show. More cacophonous brass blared as the host introduced her, beckoning her out with a saucy finger wag.

Myrcy had not exaggerated the woman’s height. Jaime felt his brows reach for his hairline as Brienne Tarth walked on stage, or rather, took over the stage. He couldn’t decide if she were a lumbering beast or some reincarnation of an ancient warrior queen.

The harsh stage lights made her already pale skin look paper-white, dotted with a thousand ink blots of freckles. She hunched as if trying to minimize the impact of her height, though that was totally fruitless. She towered over the host to the point that the camera had to cut his feet from the frame just so her head would fit as they shook hands.

She sat in a too-small chair by the host’s desk, her crazy long legs bunched up before her, making her short skirt ride up to expose her thighs. She must kick box, Jaime thought. She was too muscular for a sedentary writer’s life.

He watched all this almost absentmindedly as she fidgeted nervously in the seat and pulled her skirt down twice before she even spoke. But it was the blue of her eyes that seemed to take up the entire stage. She blinked rapidly, kept her gaze from meeting the host’s or even the camera, but she couldn’t hide her eyes framed by white and blonde.

“Gods, isn’t she gorgeous!” Myrcy leaned forward as if she’d never seen the video before, though he was sure she’d replayed it a stupid number of times.

And no, she wasn’t. Brienne Tarth was far from gorgeous. Not beautiful, not even pretty. She wasn’t the girl next door or even the pug-nosed milk-maid type. She wasn’t someone men would want to look at, but he wasn’t looking away. There was something about her…

The host babbled on like an idiot. “Now this is a look I didn’t expect to see! You’re supposed to be shy!”

She cleared her throat, then again. Then again. “Um…my manager made me wear this.”

“You didn’t want to?” The host shamelessly let his gaze wander the vast expanse of her legs, rather like Jaime was doing.

“No.”

“And why not? I’d think you’d love showing off those gams.” The host winked, making Brienne shrink back into her chair even more.

“No.”

The host was starting to feel the awkwardness judging by the wide grin no one could genuinely maintain for that long. “Well, I think you might be the only one who isn’t appreciating the view. Now tell us about _The Mighty Fool_. The buzz is huge!”

Brienne responded with stilting phrases, loosening up a little as she spoke of her characters and the old medieval song she’d based them on. Her face lit up when the host started reading comments sent in by her fans. Jaime could see how much she hated attention, the insane blush staining her skin would give it away even apart from her nervous posture, but he could also tell that she loved what she did and that her readers loved her work.

She flashed a tiny, shy smile because of a comment about Chapter Fourteen. Jaime hadn’t gotten to that one yet, among the last few he would read that night, and based on the clear thought Brienne Tarth had put in her writing, he thought the chapter just might live up to its hype.

The video ended after the host told his viewers to buy the book, the last frame freezing on Brienne Tarth’s blue eyes as she glanced toward the stage exit.

Myrcy instantly swiveled to face him. “Well? Isn’t she amazing?”

Jaime almost wanted to laugh at Myrcy’s fan-blindness. Despite her lovely eyes, the woman had been remarkably uncomfortable during the interview and showed only a few glimpses of a real personality, but he knew Myrcy’s feelings would be hurt if he said so. “Well…she seems nice enough, and I’m happy you’re not wasting your time admiring someone more likely to wind up in rehab.”

Her mouth gaped, her eyes stony. “That’s _it_? You didn’t see how sweet she is? You didn’t notice her legs even?”

Oh, he noticed, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit that to his teenage niece. “I don’t know what to say! It was a five minute video, Myrcy.”

“Ooh, you’re just…clueless!” She typed furiously on her laptop and pointed to something. “Just look at these and tell me you don’t think Brienne Tarth is just the most.”

The most _what?_ Myrcy’s lingo made him feel old. The site she’d brought up displayed several photos with captions, all of Brienne Tarth. One of them was animated, showing those blue eyes just blinking over and over again. “What is this?”

“Fumblr.”

“What? That sounds unsavory.”

“Accurate,” she mumbled under her breath, scrolling down to reveal more and photos.

“What?”

“Stop saying that. Fumblr is for fans to post, like, photos and gif sets and fic. Marg and Sansa and I run the biggest Brienne Tarth tribute Fumblr.” More scrolling, more…tributes.

“Myrcy, are you being creepy?” He cringed as soon as he said it, but he had to ask. “I mean, is this something Ms. Tarth would be okay with?”

She rolled her eyes mightily. “Uncs, it’s fine. Millions of people do this, and it’s just to show love for something. Don’t you think it’s good to spread positive images for girls like me? Besides, it’s all mostly about the book anyway, and we help spread the word and keep it in people’s minds.”

Jaime sighed the sigh of long-suffering, clueless guardianship. “Look, you know I’m not in tune with all this. I trust you, but I worry about you, and forgive me, but if Margaery Tyrell is involved, I have an inherent mistrust. She’s the most forward teenager I’ve ever met.”

“That’s true,” Myrcy admitted, her innocent gaze transforming into something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “And you should look for yourself, just to feel better. You can see my page! It’s called IanAndQuilForever.”

Jaime figured that if Myrcy really had something to hide, she wouldn’t invite him to scrutinize her hobby so closely. “I don’t need to. Like I said, I trust you.”

“No, I want you to! We can talk about it, and besides, I’m posting all kinds of new stuff to celebrate my birthday week. Since there won’t be another book signing for ages, I can at least pretend to meet her again.” Myrcy sighed as dramatically as she always seemed to do when speaking of Brienne Tarth.

He was ashamed to admit even in his own head that he was completely unprepared for Myrcy’s sixteenth birthday. It was two weeks away. What in the world was he supposed to get her? Maybe there was something in Fumblr to give him an idea. “Happy birthday in advance. I promise not to get you a baby doll again.”

Myrcy laughed, a rolling guffaw that was a far cry from her usual light titter. That had changed recently, too. “Seriously, what was that? Like seven years in a row.”

“Uncle problems.” He grinned, ruffling her hair as he rose from the couch. “I’m beat. I’m going to finish your book and get some sleep, but are you done with your homework?”

“Ages ago. And I swear, when you’re done reading, you’re going to want to meet her yourself!”

“Teenagers,” he muttered as he climbed the stairs.

* * *

 

As soon as her uncle was out of sight, the click of the door upstairs ensuring that he wouldn’t hear her, Myrcy grabbed her phone from its hiding place. She’d propped it between the branches of the indoor palm, and though the angle would be crooked, it should have captured Uncle Jaime’s face as he watched the video.

Her laptop chimed. She opened her video chat app to see Marg bouncing on her bed and shouting. “Did it work? Did you get it? What did he say? How did he look?”

“Hold on, gods! I’m getting it. Plus Sansa’s not here yet.”

“I’ll get her.” Marg bent over her keyboard.

In seconds, Sansa’s face appeared, splitting the screen with Marg’s. “You got it?”

“Just about. I’m loading it now.” Myrcy plugged her phone into her laptop, and her recording split the screen again. “Okay. Deep breaths people. This is go time.”

Myrcy had captured Jaime’s face in profile as he watched the interview, and at first, before Brienne appeared, he looked stiff and hesitant.

“Gods, he’s so adorable.” Marg sighed. “Look at those lips.”

“Stop it,” Myrcy demanded.

“But he’s trying so hard not to show how bored he is! He’s so nice!”

“He doesn’t look bored now.” Sansa’s quiet voice instantly silenced Myrcy and Marg.

Uncle Jaime’s brows were raised, his eyes bugged out as they focused on Brienne’s entrance on stage. The girls watched intently as he scanned expanses of leg, covered a small grin with one hand as if embarrassed, and kept glancing at Myrcy to see if he were being watched. Little did he know.

“Oh gods, look at him!” Marg nearly flung herself through her computer. “He wants her babies!”

“I don’t know about that, but he seems interested at least.” Sansa always tried to keep Marg in check, though she rarely succeeded.

“Yeah, Ginger, ‘cause men always stare at naked thighs when they’re just _interested_.”

“They kind of do,” Myrcy offered. “Besides, I think he was staring at her eyes. He likes eyes. It’s what he always mentions about people.”

“Then it’s even more perfect!” Marg bounced again. “She has the best eyes of any eyes like ever!”

“Okay, then phase two?” Myrcy switched her gaze from Marg to Sansa. “Did you write the manager?”

“All done. Marg saw it, and I think it was okay.”

“It was more than okay. It was this beautiful epic about Sansa’s poor, sweet friend whose mother abandoned her, and how she closed herself off until she read the glorious love of Ian and Quil. It was perfect.” Marg took a swig of an energy drink that Myrcy strongly suspected was laced with something from her grandmother’s liquor cabinet.

The story might have hit a little close to home for Myrcy, but she refused to show it. “Thank you, Sansa. Now it’s your turn, Marg. He’s upstairs reading, so in maybe an hour, you should call.”

Marg’s eyes glazed over. “I’ve dreamed of this moment, calling Uncle Jaime at night when he’s in bed. I bet he has silk sheets. Black silk—”

“Stop being gross! Besides, they’re white cotton like all the sheets because no one has the time to tell them apart when we make the beds.”

“What happened to Mrs. Stokeworth?” Sansa asked.

Myrcy shrugged. “She walked out. Same as most of them. Tommen told Uncs she said she didn’t want to be a nanny, but it was because I left my quill pen from that fan store in my bed when I was writing fic, and she washed it with the sheets. Got ink all over everything.”

“I’ll send some over,” Marg offered.

“You do too much, Marg.” Myrcy hated feeling like she was failing her uncle. He tried so hard to take care of them, but maybe setting him up with Brienne Tarth would help repay him.

“I do what I want, gods!” Marg huffed. “I’ll call in an hour and then get back on chat to tell you how it went.”

“Well, he’s primed and ready. The seed’s been planted, so he won’t be able to get the idea off his mind for sure.” Myrcy wasn’t as confident inside as she pretended, but her gloomy train of thought was broken when Marg lay back on her bed with heaving laughter.

“What?”

Sansa sighed over the laughter. “She heard it as dirty.”

“Ew! Stop it! You hear everything as dirty.” Myrcy shuddered.

“I do. I really do.”

* * *

Jaime settled further against his pillows, his glass of Arbor Red long gone. He closed _The Mighty Fool_ with both hands. His eyes burned, and he lifted his fingers to rub them, refusing to contemplate why he was sorry to see the book end.

Chapter Fourteen had been…intriguing. The way Ms. Tarth strung words together, the way she communicated the strange relationship between Ian and Quil, somehow struck him. Perhaps he related to Ian’s arrogance or his suffering from being disowned by his father. It would be a hard correlation to avoid.

No matter, Jaime decided. He’d read the book for Myrcy, would tell her he’d enjoyed it and that Ms. Tarth was good writer, and it would be done. He wouldn’t picture the great hulking woman as an adult version of Quil since he had no more chapters to read. He wouldn’t hear the author’s deep, hesitant voice reading the lines.

It was really too bad the sequel wasn’t out yet. He could try to get an advance copy for Myrcy’s birthday present. Have it signed, ask Ms. Tarth to write a note…

His phone rang. It was late and an unknown caller, but he answered anyway, just to distract himself. “Hello?”

“Uncle Jaime?” The voice on the other end purred seductively, though there was an undercurrent of hyperactivity.

Margaery Tyrell. Great. “I’m not your uncle, Margaery. It’s odd to call me that, and I’m warning you that if you say anything inappropriate, I will run downstairs immediately and hand you off to Myrcy. And call your grandmother.”

“How will you call if you’ve handed your phone to Myrcy?” She teased him unabashedly.

He pitied her future boyfriends. She’d tear them to shreds. “I have a land line. Why are you calling?”

“It’s about Myrcy’s birthday.” Margaery suddenly sounded completely serious. “She’s my best friend and I love her to death. Sansa and I want this birthday to be extra special, since…you know. Her mom and stuff. Nothing would make her happier than meeting Brienne Tarth again, so we were thinking that you could use your fantabulous Lannister connections and ask for an appearance? I can get one of those lovely hospitality suites at one of my grandmother’s hotels and serve a tea or something, and you could ask Brienne to come?”

It all came out in a rush and took Jaime a minute to catch up. His stomach plummeted with anticipated failure, knowing full well how much Myrcy would love that kind of gift. “Margaery, I really appreciate you and Sansa for being such good friends to Myrcy, but I really don’t think I can arrange that sort of thing. I don’t have the status I used to.”

“Nonsense! Of course you do, you’ve just rejected it. Not the same thing at all. Just phone up her manager and tell them what a great PR move it would be!”

Jaime sighed deeply, resuming his eye-rubbing with even more vigor. “I suppose I can try, but please don’t tell Myrcy. I couldn’t stand her disappointment if and probably when it doesn’t work.”

“Not a word! Just tell me when you hear from her so I know what time to book the suite.”

“Fine, fine. You win. I’ll try, but you’d better have a pretty impressive backup, Margaery.”

“We have faith in you! Good luck! You won’t need it! Bye!” Margaery hung up immediately, before he could even attempt another objection.

Good gods, what had he gotten himself into? He’d been caught half on his way to sleep after hours in the digital and printed company of Brienne Tarth, and his desire to make Myrcy happy seemed to have clouded his judgment. Nothing for it now. He’d have to track down Ms. Tarth’s manager and plead to the heavens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikki beta'd, and in her (amazeball) words, she is the Spanx to my fic body, without the unpleasant cooch chafing. 
> 
> Go read her Hitchock fic written with Tafkar, Rear Window. I'm ded like Sansa over it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne considers an appearance at Myrcy's party and meets a certain someone over brunch.

 

Brienne Tarth sat in her ergonomic desk chair, hunched over her laptop. Her fingers galloped across the keyboard as she rushed to get the words from her brain to the screen before they fled. It happened so often, and it was always crushing. She’d have a perfect phrase, maybe a perfect page, all written in her head, but it was gone by the time she found paper.

Almost there, almost that whole perfect paragraph…

The phone rang.

The words were gone. That last sentence tying it all together vanished.

“Damn it to the seven hells!” She shouted at the top of her lungs into her empty office.

She should have remembered to silence the phone, but her muse struck. Her nails bit into her palm as she answered, her manager’s photo plastered on the screen. “What?”

“Ah, Brienne. Sorry to interrupt.” Goodwin knew her moods well enough. “I have an interesting prospect to discuss with you.”

She took a deep breath to quell her anger. It wasn’t really Goodwin’s fault after all. “What is it?" She asked in a much more pleasant tone.

“There’s a girl with some family issues, huge fan of yours, and her friend wrote to ask if you might make an appearance for the girl’s birthday—”

Brienne interrupted him this time, dreading even the concept of any more _appearances_. “This is happening more frequently, and I still don’t want to do it.”

Goodwin spoke slowly and calmly. “I know, but hear me out for a moment. This girl is from a very prominent family, and refusing might be more problematic than pushing through it. That’s not _really_ the reason I want you to think about it. The friend wrote on Tuesday, but yesterday, the girl’s uncle, who is also her guardian, called in. It was a totally separate request. It seems this girl is essentially your biggest fan. You remember that Fumblr I asked you to read?”

Brienne recalled the page…something about Ian and Quil forever. It had been uncomfortable, even unpleasant, to see her own face plastered everywhere: her walking by the Blackwater in her new sunglasses (which had been identified almost immediately and sold out), her with Goodwin before the fans realized he was her manager and not her boyfriend, her with a random fan at an airport. But there was nothing mocking. Though she hated being public in any way, the fans who loved her work enough to make it some kind of hobby were always kind. They followed what she wore, what she liked to eat…it was a bit creepy and more than a bit heartwarming.

At least _some people_ genuinely liked her. She sighed and almost dreaded where this was going. “Yes, I remember. That girl was at the signing, too, wasn’t she?”

“She was, as well as the friend who wrote in. Her uncle seemed reluctant to ask for the appearance. He mumbled a lot. I got the impression he was embarrassed by the situation but he seemed very sincere about making his niece happy.”

“Then what aren’t you telling me?” Brienne could tell it was something important.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “The girl is Myrcella Baratheon, granddaughter of Tywin Lannister.”

That settled it. There was no possible way Brienne would allow herself to become entangled with _any_ Lannister affair. That family practically ran the city, always competing with the Tyrells for land to develop and investments to make. She wanted nothing to do with people like that.

“Absolutely not, Goodwin. Never.”

“Think of the girl! Her mother abandoned her, Brienne. Think of the incredible publicity you’d get for meeting your biggest fan on her birthday! The Lannister family would be in your debt, and we all know what that means.”

“I will not pander to the powers that be for publicity. I’m doing quite well on my own, thank you very much.” She leaned back in her chair in a huff.

“Obviously you are, or you would never have been asked. I forget how un-mercenary you are sometimes, even though you really need to toughen up about the public life. This is really about the girl. It would be a small group, in a private space. Keeping your passionate fans engaged by doing this one event would be worth more than months of appearances. They love you, Brienne. Time to love them back a little.”

“Why are you doing this to me? I love them plenty. This feels like the talk show skirt incident all over again.” Brienne scrubbed her eyes with the fingers of her free hand.

“You’re giving in. I can tell.”

“Not quite.” She realized she would lose this match since she couldn’t find it in her to refuse a young girl, but she still had standards. “I need to speak to the uncle. He has to understand that there will be no debt, and that I will not be entangled in any Lannister nonsense.”

“I anticipated as much. You have that publisher’s brunch in a few days, so why don’t I tell him to stop by? We can both speak to him and have a good excuse to cut things short if necessary.”

She heard the unsaid, yet again. “You already told him, didn’t you?”

“I might have. I knew what you’d say.” He chuckled.

“At this moment, I feel I should hate you.”

“Should but can’t. You’re too nice for that. I’ll see you at the brunch.” Goodwin added a cheerful goodbye before hanging up.

Brienne growled like a bear, trying and failing to resign herself to Goodwin’s latest scheme. He was always making her push her limits, _crawl out of the comfort zone_ he liked to say. No thank you. She was just fine in her office writing her tales without wearing skirts and speaking to strangers.

But she was curious. If she had to be wrangled into another appearance, she could at least do her homework and try to avoid a repeat of the disaster of that late-night interview. She shot a quick text to Goodwin. _Uncle’s name?_

His reply was almost instant. _Jaime Lannister._

 _Oh good gods, no_. What had she done? She couldn’t go through with this, couldn’t sit through a meeting with the one Lannister who carried the absolute worst reputation. _Or did he?_ At the rate she was rubbing her eyes, they were going to be raw and swollen for days, but she really should have put it together. If the girl were Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter, her mother would be Cersei Lannister-Baratheon, the only one of Tywin’s children to have children of their own, as far as she knew. There were just so many dozens of Lannisters floating about in King’s Landing…

That poor girl, she thought. There had been such a scandal when Cersei had spiraled out of control after her husband’s death. And Jaime Lannister, apparently _former_ playboy who had lost a hand in a fight outside a hotel, wanted _her_ to make his niece happy. She desperately wanted out of it, but she pictured the girl’s sweet face, Myrcella her name was, and felt a wave of empathy overtake her. The media had not been kind to Cersei’s children.

“Good gods,” she muttered, rolling her head from side to side on the mesh of her desk chair.

Before she could even process what her fingers were doing, she had found Myrcella’s Fumblr page where images of the book signing flooded every corner. She scrolled around for a bit, unable to decide whether flattery or disturbance would win out, and then she found a link to Myrcella’s FastaGram page where she appeared to post much more personal photos and videos. The girl should really be more aware of security.

A grainy video started playing automatically, showing the three fangirls jumping on a trampoline as they shouted random things into the air and tried to do fancy poses. Myrcella yelled for someone named Tommen to hold the camera steadier.

One of the girls flashed her bra, and Myrcella pushed her off the trampoline as the other girl followed to pick the flasher off the grass. They were all laughing though. Out of nowhere, a man in a white shirt and nice trousers darted over and jumped mightily on the trampoline. He grinned widely and grabbed Myrcella into an awkward waltz, half in mid-air as he held her with one hand. Jaime Lannister.

Myrcella shouted something about being a dork, while the girl with the bra climbed back on the trampoline and _accidentally_ fell against him with her breasts pushed out.

“Hells no!” Brienne heard him say quite clearly as he darted away from the flasher faster than she would have expected.  

That was not what she had expected to see. People didn’t just change who they were. They weren’t wealthy womanizers one day and doting caretakers the next, but the Jaime Lannister willing to make an idiot of himself on a trampoline and who had tracked her manager down did not mesh with the reputation he had earned. Maybe the media had simply not been kind to him as well.

Brienne let out a deep breath and stopped trying to pretend she could find a way out of this appearance. If going to Myrcella Baratheon’s birthday party would make her smile like she had on the trampoline, Brienne couldn’t refuse.

* * *

 

“Oh gods, you guys! I heard back! She wrote me back! I mean, somebody wrote me back! Help!” Sansa’s high-pitched squeal echoed over the line.

Myrcy had to hold her phone away from her ear for a second, and then another as Marg shrieked some kind of response. “Slow down! What does it say and who said it?”

“I think it’s her manager. It’s like a bunch of initials and ‘Goodwin’ and more initials like titles and stuff.”

“Goodwin _is_ her manager. It’s in the acknowledgements section of the book.” Marg sounded more even-keeled than Myrcy knew she would be in this moment of wonder.

“You poser,” she accused. “We all knew that. Sansa’s just excited.”

“Yes! I’m excited! Help!”

“Read the message then!” Marg sounded like she was violently filing her nails.

“It says that Ms. Tarth is considering our request and will get back to us within the week, but that her schedule is busy and she may not be able to commit.”

“Bullshit!” Marg yelled. “She only has two events on her calendar, some brunch that’s not public and a cover art showcase at the King’s Gallery, but I’ll bet she’ll skip that one.”

“Maybe she has her own calendar, too. I mean, we can’t know _everything_ she does.” Myrcy tried to be reasonable. She really did try.

Marg was rarely reasonable. “Then we’ll just have to find that calendar, too!”

“We can’t hack into her computer, Marg!”

“Fine, fine. Whatevs.”

“What do we do? Tell me!” Sansa wailed.

“Nothing. We have to wait and maybe keep posting super cute stuff on Fumblr. I bet she checked. I’d check. I’d stalk us to see if we’re crazy.” Myrcy knew her words were muffled as she tapped her lip with one finger in terribly deep thought.

“Oh no! We _are_ crazy!” Sansa wail number two.

“What if she hates us?” Marg abruptly sounded defeated.

Myrcy felt like the old lady of the trio sometimes. “She was perfectly nice at the signing. She knows we’re enthusiastic and she has to like our love for all the things. It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah. It’ll be fine,” Sansa echoed.

“It’ll be fine,” Marg echoed the echo.

“But how long should we wait?” Sansa began spiraling again.

“Well, he said within the week, and that’s like four more days, so we wait four days.”

“Four whole days,” Sansa moaned.

Marg sucked something through a straw. “Four days. We’ll have to find something to do.”

“New fic. It’s the only answer,” Myrcy commanded. “And I have to go work on my costume.”

“Oh gods, I’m so jealous your birthday comes first. I have to wait to be Quil for like seven months!” Sansa wail number three.

“I do have that one fic about the underwear.” Marg retreated into her dreamy fic voice and faded away, probably dropping her phone on her bed.

“Must reblog. Bye.” Sansa hung up.

Four days would be enough time to finish the Quil corset with the faux aurochs-leather panels. The project would just have to be a sufficient distraction until Brienne Tarth decided to accept her fate and meet her One True Partner.

* * *

 

“Smile,” Goodwin reminded for the tenth time in an hour. It was getting exasperating.

“I am.”

“It’s a terrible attempt,” he grumbled from his perch next to her. “The worst is over anyway. You only have one more person to talk to.”

“Jaime Lannister is worse than all others put together.”

“And why is that? It’s just a birthday party.” Goodwin shrugged.

She knew, this time, he wouldn’t understand. How could she explain that she was nervous because requests from prominent families nearly always led to more requests from prominent families, and that she viewed those requests as a bad things, and that someone like Jaime Lannister would likely be very displeased to hear she had conditions?

She was out of time to fret. A golden-haired, nicely-suited man appeared in the open double-doorway of the ballroom where brunch tables were arranged. She knew immediately it was _him_ , though if she’d had any doubt, the scores of female gazes scanning him would give his identity away. That and the lack of a hand, his shirt and jacket rolled into crisp layers around his stump.

She watched from under her lashes as he scanned the large room, clearly in search of her homely face. She knew he’d have looked her up, so at least his disappointment in her appearance would be less obvious than others she’d met. The interviewers and reporters she was forced to speak to always tried to be bubbly and complimentary, but once the cameras stopped rolling and the crowds dispersed, they never had another word to say to her, and certainly never a real nod of approval.

Brienne sighed and adopted her favorite hunched posture. Her fork kept one hand occupied by pushing bits of egg around her plate, though she’d stopped eating a while ago. Goodwin scooted his chair back and rose. She had been found.

“Mr. Lannister! Pleasure to meet you, and this of course, is Brienne Tarth.” Goodwin’s knee subtly nudged her as he spoke.

“The pleasure is mine.” Lannister’s voice was tense and rumbling.

Nothing for it then. Tower over him she must, and then get scanned from head to toe and be found wanting. She didn’t pretend to have any grace as she jerkily stood, her face turned to her plate until the last possible second. Her hand extended before she allowed herself to look at him.

He took a step back when their eyes met, his lips parting to expel a likely veiled insult. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded towards his stump. “Sorry, it’s…awkward to shake hands. It unnerves people.”

“You have a left hand.” The words were out before she could stop them, though she instantly regretted whatever idiocy had prompted them. And she lowered her right hand and lifted her left as if her arms were controlled against her will by the strings of a marionette.

He was beautiful, for a man. She was not disturbed by this opinion since she took it as fact, but still…his expression was strange and unreadable, and when he hesitantly reached out his left hand to grasp hers in an awkward mirror of the usual custom, they both broke the gaze and stared at eggs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for ALL TEH LOVE! I haven't been able to reply to every comment, but I read and love them all :-)
> 
> Mikki is still the beta of wonder. Always and 5evah.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday arrives, Myrcy wears a plastic corset, and Brienne finally encounters the fangirls for realsies.

 

“I need you to come pick me up from the floor, like immediately. I’m dying and I can’t remember how to breathe and my sinuses are full of feels.”

Myrcy could barely understand Sansa through the crying that filtered through the phone. “What is it? What happened?”

“Can’t even…get Marg.”

Myrcy immediately added their friend.

“What’s up? Do I hear crying? Oh my gods, was Brienne spotted somewhere?” Margaery shouted loud enough to make Myrcy hold the phone away from her ear. 

“Sansa is dying again. You know she can’t repeat herself when she’s drowning in feels on the floor, so we had to get you.”

“Go, Sansa, go!” Margaery didn’t even bother to lower her voice.

Sansa gasped and choked on her words. “Oh my gods, Myrcy, you’re so lucky, like all the gods love you, and I hate you but I’ll never hate you. She is coming, you guys! She is really coming!”

“That’s what she said!” Marg shouted even louder than before.

“Marg! Hold up, what are you saying…are you saying?...no, no way…you can’t mean?” Myrcy began hyperventilating as she paced back and forth in her room, wildly flapping her free hand in the air.

“She’s coming to Myrcy’s birthday, isn’t she! I’m speaking in shouty capitals!” Marg shouted again.

“That’s why I’m dying, you guys! It's happening! She's going to come and be in the same room with us and meet Uncle Jaime and their eyes are going to meet across the table and she's going to think he's hot and they are going to fall in love and have tall awkward babies!”

Now, Myrcy couldn’t breathe. She put her phone on speaker and tossed it on her bed, too afraid she’s drop it with her shaking hands. She tripped on some laundry and let herself fall on the mattress with her face half-buried in tangled blankets. “Help!”

Marg stopped shouting and adopted her dreamy voice. “He’ll probably be there first. He’ll watch her stop in the doorway and do that thing she does where she folds her hands together in front of her and looks down at her feet, and the chandeliers will shine on her like the sun or maybe like his golden hair. And he’ll watch her cross the room to the table, and it’ll be like in slow motion and then maybe he’ll trip when he gets up to greet her, and they’ll shake hands, and the second their heated skin touches, they’ll jolt apart with sexual electricity.”

“Oh my gods! It’s going to happen!” Sansa howled.

“It’s my uncle and it’s gross but I want it!” Myrcy mumbled.

“And he’ll pull her chair out for her, and later, when the cake is cut, she’ll get some frosting on her lip, and he won’t be able to help himself, and he’ll wipe it with his thumb, and because he’s staring at her lips, he’ll want to kiss her, and he won’t want her to leave when it’s time.” Marg sighed deeply and let a few tears out. “And then they’ll go do it.”

“Marg! Ew!” Myrcy collected herself enough to complain.

“You just said you wanted it! We all want them to bang, so don’t pretend you don’t!”

Sansa sniffed wetly. “My babies!”

“Hold up, someone’s calling me,” Margaery interrupted. “Oh my gods, it’s hot Uncle Jaime! He must have heard from Brienne, too! Of course he did! Mute your phones, and I’ll add him in.”

Myrcy tapped the mute button and bit her nails as she waited.  

“Hello?” Margaery purred. Myrcy couldn’t even say _gross_.

_“It’s Jaime Lannister.”_

“Obviously, delicious silly man.”

“Marg!” Myrcy shouted, though no one could hear.

_“Margaery, that’s inappropriate.”_

“So am I. But fine, did you hear back?” Margaery was trying so hard to sound totally adult and even deepened her voice, but Myrcy didn’t care this time.

_“I did. I spoke to Ms. Tarth’s manager, and Ms. Tarth herself. She was…incredibly nice. She wants to make Myrcy happy, so she’s agreed to come to the party for an hour or so. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I sincerely thank you for the idea, Margaery. Myrcy deserves something good right now.”_

Tears leaked from Myrcy’s eyes. “Oh my gods, oh my gods,” she mumbled in a torrent.

“She totes does. Oh my gods, I can't believe this!” Margaery let out an appropriate amount of excitement, though not nearly enough if it were really the first time she were hearing about Brienne’s agreement. Uncs wouldn’t know though.

_“I wish I had a venue to book on my own, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take you up on that offer of a hotel suite. I have to get the location and time to Ms. Tarth within a few days.”_

“Of course! I’ll book something tonight and text you. Oh gods, it’s going to be just the most everything of everything! I’ll take care of it all, the cake, the glistening decorations that match your hair! Everything. All the pretty things.” Margaery sighed loudly.

“Margaery!” Myrcy wanted to throttle her friend.

_“That match what?”_

“Myrcy’s hair! I mean, she has the Lannister hair, so your hair. Obvs.” Margaery coughed.

_“Um, thank you. I’m hopeless with this stuff.”_

“It’s all good. ‘K bye.” Margaery ended the call with Uncs abruptly.

“You cut him off!” Myrcy accused as soon as unmuted her phone.  

“I had to! I’m going to cry and I have so much to plan! Oh my gods!”

“There’s three of us. We’ll all plan,” Myrcy asserted.

“No, Myrcy, I’ll help Marg,” Sansa insisted, back in the convo as well. “We all planned this, but it’s still your birthday. There should be some surprises.”

“Aah, you guys! I love you so much! I just cannot with all the loves. Every loves.”

“No we love _you_!  All the loves!” Marg sniffed as much as Sansa had earlier.

A knock sounded on Myrcy’s door. Tommen always asked in a weirdly formal way if he could come in, so it had to be Uncle Jaime.

“Hold on, you guys. I think Uncs is here to tell me what we already heard. Oh gods, pretending is hard!” Myrcy scrubbed her sleeves over her teary eyes and stumbled off her bed.

She flung the door open to see Uncle Jaime in the hallway with his hand scratching his stump absentmindedly.

His eyes focused immediately on her face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Myrcy nodded and shook her head at the same time in a weird rolling motion.

His brow crinkled. “Tell me.”

“I…I’m fine. Good. Overwhelmed.” Myrcy sniffed to keep the snot from falling out of her nose.

“Um, anything I can do?” He stuffed his hand in pocket, so Myrcy knew he was doubting himself again.

She worked harder to regain her composure. “No, really. It’s okay. Something exciting happened to Sansa, that’s all.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Yep, I’m sure. What’s up?”

He grinned widely, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. “Do you have plans for your birthday?”

 _Don’t give it away, don’t it away,_ she repeated in her head, struggling to keep a matching grin off her face. He was going to tell her! Duh.

She folded her arms and tilted her head to be totes cazsh. “Um, nothing yet.”

“Good, because I thought it might be nice to do something as a family. You know, keep it small.” He shrugged as if nothing epic and life changing were waiting in the wings, though he couldn’t stop a grin from forming.  

She couldn’t let him off that easy. “You’re hiding something.”

The grin remained. “Maybe.”

“A surprise? I _love_ surprises!” She clapped her hands and tried, _really, really_ hard not to blurt out something about Brienne.

“That’s good, because I might have a little something planned. You’ll like it, I promise.”

“Can I wear my Quil costume? Will that be too weird like that time at your company picnic when I wore my Sigil of the Bear: The Final Encounter: Ashara’s Destiny: Love in the Razor Grass Princess Dayne costume?” Myrcy widened her eyes in that way that made Uncle Jaime let her do stuff, just so she wouldn’t have to sneak her costume in and make up an excuse to change into it after Brienne arrived.

Poor Uncs looked lost and afraid. “Please tell me there won’t be another wire cage to transport.”

“It was a hoop skirt, and no. It’s really simple. Mostly,” she pleaded.

“Then I suppose it’s fine.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck in a choke hold. She just couldn’t help it!

“Oh, well…okay. It’s fine, really,” he gurgled as he tugged one of her arms away from his throat.

She leaned way up to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re the bestest uncle ever!”

He looked a little stunned as she slammed the door shut, not able to keep the squeeing inside anymore. She ran over and screamed into a pillow a few times before she picked up her phone. “It’s all set! It’s happening! Less than a week and Operation OTP is in phase two!”

Marg snorted into the phone. “And after they sneak off to bang, they’ll be all shy and they’ll each think the other will regret it, but then he’ll lift his one hand to push a piece of loose hair behind her ear, and she’ll get caught up in his emerald orbs of seduction, and he’ll lean in to kiss her gently, and then they’ll go bang again!”

“Fine! I give in! I want that, too! Oh my gods!”

“I can’t even!”

* * *

 

Jaime had to silence his phone on the way to the Rose Garden Hotel since Margaery Tyrell wouldn’t stop texting him. He’d been assuring her since dawn that he knew where the hotel was, had the hospitality suite number, had called the cab to _get_ them to the hotel, had made Tommen a sandwich so he wouldn’t get carsick on Myrcy’s costume, and was currently _in_ the cab with Myrcy, her intact costume, and a full-bellied Tommen.

“Where are we going?” Tommen asked as he clutched his clumsily-wrapped present for Myrcy and a weirdly enormous backpack.

“It’s a surprise, but we’ll be there in a minute or so,” he replied.

Myrcy had bounced in her seat the whole time, despite the fact that there wasn’t really space to do so as Tommen was sandwiched between them. “Gods, I’m so excited!”

Jaime felt a smile take over his face. At last he’d done something right, even if it hadn’t been his idea and Margaery had done the vast majority of work to make it happen. He could say he’d contributed by actually _calling_ Brienne Tarth’s manager and meeting with her. That had been…interesting. She was so shy and nervous, and _tall_. Once they’d sat down at the brunch table, he’d dropped his napkin just to see if she were wearing heels, but she hadn’t been. No skirt either, just a bit of calf showing in her short trousers. Too bad about the skirt.  

He’d thought a lot about how nice she was to do this for Myrcy. He hadn’t wanted to tell her about the family circumstances, but it sort of blurted out when she asked why he sounded sad when he spoke of Myrcy. He was genuinely grateful that Myrcy looked up to someone who could be a good role model and not one of those flighty, crotch-grabbing pop singers.

He now wished he’d said that to her, because Brienne Tarth was not flighty or lewd. She wasn’t even attractive, so her appeal was based on compassion and a good character. She wasn’t his type. He didn’t have a type anymore, but it probably wasn’t her.

He didn’t know eyes came in _that_ shade of blue. It must be unique to her, certainly a bluer blue than he’d seen on anyone else with blue eyes. _Cornflower?_ No, not quite. _Sapphire_. That was definitely it.

He thought he was right about his kickboxing idea from watching her talk show video with Myrcy. Her legs had been made of coiled muscle, lean and strong, not fleshy. He thought she could probably defeat most men in a boxing ring, though she’d be far too shy to try it. What would it be like to spar like that? He could beat her. Or he could have beat her, once. Not anymore.

“Are we here? I think we’re here, Uncs. The cab stopped like three days ago.”

He jolted out of his strange mood and took in Myrcy’s and Tommen’s matching wide eyes, full of anticipation.

“Yep, we’re here. Come on kiddos, time to party!” He got out of the cab and helped Tommen.

“That sounded so 2010, Uncs.” Myrcy’s laugh was carefree as she mocked, but he knew she didn’t really mind.

She stumbled out of the cab as she held up her long skirt, made of some dark green cloth. He knew she was trying to be Quil from Brienne’s book since the character had worn an aurochs-leather corset, and Myrcy had made some kind of imitation out of plastic-y fabric. It looked really cheap. He wished he’d have known long ago so he could have given her some extra money for better materials.

No matter now. He hoped Brienne would be amused by the attempt. Even if she weren’t, he sensed that she wouldn’t say anything to hurt Myrcy anyway. “Come on then, or we’ll be late!”

He ignored the doorman’s odd look at costumed Myrcy, and they moved inside the fancy hotel. The hospitality suite was down a long rose and gold corridor with high ceilings interrupted by frosted faux-skylights. He paused in front of the large double doors and turned to face his de facto children.

“Right then, Tom, this might be long for you, so you can play or watch a movie in the corner if you want, all right?” He waited for Tommen to nod. “And Myrcella…happy birthday.”

He grinned a little sheepishly and opened one of the doors for his niece, watching her face transform as she walked inside. Her eyes went wide, her mouth gaped open…he had done something right.

“Surprise!” Sansa and Margaery shouted simultaneously.

“Oh my gods!” she whispered as she darted ahead to her friends.

He paused just inside with Tommen next to him, taking in the extravagant setting with as much surprise as Myrcy. Margaery Tyrell was always over-the-top, and this might be the one time he was thankful for that. Everything seemed too much for the small number of people currently there. Who had Margaery invited?

The suite was huge with the same high ceiling as the corridor. A long table was set directly under the massive chandelier, decorated in the old medieval style with high-backed wooden chairs surrounding it and big platters of fruit, cheese, and other foods he couldn’t quite identify. There was another table to one side that had a cake shaped like an open book, complete with words and tiny illuminations. It was obvious which book it mimicked.

He heard weird noises coming from Myrcy, choking and snorting, and she suddenly sank to the carpet in a lump and lay down with her arms covering her eyes.

He rushed over to her. “Are you sick?”

Sansa Stark’s hand touched tapped his arm. “She’s just dead. It’s fine.”

“What?”

“I’m fine!” Myrcy wailed.

“Oh, honestly! We just love you!” Margaery yanked Myrcy to her feet and pulled her into a hug.

Sansa immediately joined in until he could no longer tell whose arms belonged to whom. They were just a big teenage-girl blob with three heads pressed together as they wept. _Seriously, why was there so much crying?_

He hadn’t noticed what the other girls were wearing. In Margaery’s case, he wished he never had and contemplated calling her grandmother. She had on a skintight cat suit made of motley spandex like an old-time fool if that fool worked for a casino. She even had a headpiece of floppy stuffed horns. _Good gods, that girl was trouble_. At least Sansa was more demure if still as ridiculous. She’d dressed in what looked like a sparkling blue sheet draped all over her in uneven folds.

He felt Tommen tugging his sleeve. “Do you need something?”

“No, but somebody’s here.” Tommen pointed to the door.

Jaime turned to see Brienne Tarth standing hesitantly just outside. His face broke into a genuine smile. He thought her lips twitched a little, though he couldn’t be sure. He paced over to her.

“They’re all right,” he assured her over the din of weeping as he stopped an arm’s length away. “Just…dead apparently.”

Brienne did smile at that, a real smile that made her eyes shine as she stepped inside. “I can see that.”

The girls instantly stopped making any noise at all as if they’d been shoved into a sound booth. They kept hold of each other as their heads snapped up violently to stare at Brienne. Their collective intake of breath sounded like a hospital respirator.

Brienne took one more step towards them, leaving Jaime standing just behind. “Hello.”

Jaime thought Myrcy might be actually hyperventilating. Margaery opened and closed her lips over and over. Sansa shrieked in what sounded like pain.

Their faces turned in unison from him to Brienne and back again. He moved to stand beside her.

He scrubbed his eyes in exasperation or maybe even embarrassment. “Sorry about this. They’re…I don’t even know.” He chuckled as he realized his niece’s vocabulary was rubbing off on him.

“They’re fans,” she said in such a gentle voice as she shrugged.

“Oh my gods!” Margaery shouted at the top of her lungs.

Jaime looked away from them, not able to decide if he’d rather put them in time-out or sedate them. “Thank you so much for coming. I’ll try to get them in order.”

“It’s fine, honestly.”

He let himself meet her blue gaze and felt an odd surge of…something as he saw the understanding written plainly on her face. _Or was it her plain face?_ No, not that. And she wasn’t his type.

He said something just for the sake of saying something. “I thought your manager was coming. Though if he’s sane, he might want to avoid this as much as possible.”

She cleared her throat. “He was, but he had an unexpected meeting.” She seemed to fidget at the prospect of facing the party alone, glancing around but not meeting anyone’s eyes.

He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. “It’s really nice to see you again,” he blurted out.

She blushed a ruddy red that turned all her skin the color of her freckles as she glanced at the carpet. “Likewise.”

Three high-pitched voices shattered everything everywhere in the entire world. “What?!?!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the brunch would have been super boring to work through, so I moved on to the big stuff. Tomorrow, appearances by some SPESHUL characters, and possibly a certain cat, because CAT. 
> 
> Beta'd by Mikki, author of hot haikus and fixer of bad blocking. Seriously, read her haikus. HOT.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcy's birthday does not go as planned. Jaime is tested beyond capacity, and Brienne might actually be the only "normal" person present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love everyone for ever! I posted late yesterday, so today is EARLY. Take that. 
> 
> This is really long. It didn't want to stop.

 

“You met before?” Myrcy shouted accusatorily.

“How did they meet before?” Marg asked in a shocked tone, shifting her gaze between her friends.

“How is this happening?” Sansa wailed.

“We missed the beginning of the journey!” Myrcy started sinking to the carpet. Marg and Sansa propped her up.

Jaime stared at each of the three girls in turn, but finally fixed his gaze on Myrcy. _How could she not be happy?_ Rude and not happy.

He glanced at Brienne Tarth to see her equally puzzled expression, all furrowed brow and downturned pink lips.

“Myrcy,” he warned through gritted teeth. “I met with Ms. Tarth to invite her to come all the way here to meet you on your birthday, which she has graciously done. Why don’t you come say hello?”

Myrcy jolted as if she’d been slapped. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry! Oh gods! I’m terrible, you guys! We’re terrible!”

She darted forward but jerked to a halt a few feet from Brienne, holding out one hand then the other, finally giving up and slumping where she stood.

He watched as Brienne took pity on her and flashed a tiny smile, placing one large hand on Myrcy’s shoulder. “Happy birthday.”

Myrcy choked on air and squirmed inside her restricting corset as she tried to stand upright like a normal human. “Th…thank you. Oh gods!”

She flung her hands behind her to beckon her friends over. They dashed forward to take a hand each. “This is Sansa.” She nodded to her right, then left. “And Margaery.”

“Hello,” Brienne mumbled, blushing again as the girls stared at her without blinking.

Tommen brushed past him and tugged on Brienne’s sleeve as he craned his neck to see her face. “I am Tommen Lannister-Baratheon. Myrcy is my sister, and I have a cat called Ser Pounce, and I am eight.” He held out a pudgy little hand like a perfect gentleman. _Good boy_ , Jaime thought proudly.

Brienne graciously took Tom’s hand, giving a genuine smile, wide and free of hesitation. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lannister-Baratheon.”

Tom let go of her hand and turned his gaze to Jaime. “She’s nice.”

Jaime could tell she was embarrassed, and things were getting…odd. “Yes, she certainly is. Why don’t we sit? Have something to drink?”

He gestured with his hand to the table and kept it extended as Brienne nodded and headed over. He let it fall awkwardly, realizing the impropriety of placing it on the small of her back. 

The girls whispered to each other as they followed slowly, and he glanced over his shoulder to flash them a _look_. They were behaving like toddlers. They appeared suitably humbled for all of three seconds.

Brienne hadn’t looked up from the carpet much, but her blue eyes popped up to meet his as he pulled the head chair out for her.

She glanced between it and his eyes. “Shouldn’t this one be for your niece?”

“Oh, um…you’re the honored guest?” He shrugged.

She stared at him oddly, analyzing him almost, he thought.

“I don’t need to be. I’ll take one on the side so Myrcella can be a proper princess.” She moved to a chair that would place her kitty-corner to Myrcy.

He rushed to pull that one out, too, but his one-handed grip twisted the chair sideways, and it stuck on the table leg. He yanked in frustration until her freckled hand grasped the top of the chair and straightened it again.

“Thank you,” she mumbled as she took the seat, not looking at him again as he feigned pushing it in even though she was doing it herself.

He stood there in silence as the girls ended their moment of good behavior and rushed to claim seats. Myrcy scooted the head chair in before he could even offer, and propped her chin on her palms as she stared at Brienne.

Margaery’s spandex was too tight for her to move all that fast, but she managed to claim the seat next to Brienne. “This is amazeballs!”

“Margaery Tyrell!” he gritted, glancing at Tommen who appeared to be occupied with his backpack as he took the seat next to her.

Sansa plopped across from Brienne. Myrcy jerked her head. “Ahem?”

“What is wrong with you?” Jaime finally couldn’t keep it in.

“Nothing wrong’s and everything is magical and wonderful! We’re just excited.” Myrcy grinned and stared until he gave up and looked away.

Whatever signal she’d given Sansa had spurred her to immediate action. She moved down a seat to leave the one across from Brienne open, though Sansa seemed to tear up because of it.

“I can take the end. It’s fine,” he offered so the girls could all be close to their hero, however bad an idea that might prove to be. There would still be a free chair for Tyrion when he arrived.

They frantically shook their heads in unison, and Marg shouted out, “That’s for Grandmother!”

Jaime froze. That old Tyrell terror was coming? He didn’t want to entertain such a horrifying idea, but he should have expected it since they were using her hotel. At least he was certain that Olenna would be the only geriatric dictator present since Tywin had refused to set foot in Tyrell territory. He’d insisted on an intimate family affair for Myrcy next week. He wished he’d have backup for that.

“Why would she disrupt her busy schedule, Margaery?” He was hopeful that Olenna’s visit would be brief.

“She’s heard me talk so much about the book and Ms. Tarth that she wants to meet her. She let me do all this,” she waved vaguely over the room and table, “so I couldn’t really ask her not to come.”

Jaime scrubbed his eyes. Nothing to do about it now, so he finally took his seat across from Brienne, blinking as the chandelier reflected off her blonde hair. She glanced up occasionally, and he was about to say something about…something, when his phone alert sounded.

He glanced at Myrcy after he checked. “Your Uncle Tyrion is running late, but he’ll be here. Says he wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Oh good! He’s always so funny!” she gushed, then turned to Brienne. “You’ll just _love_ him, I swear! Uncle Jaime smiles a lot when he’s around!”

Things felt incredibly awkward, and he was about to suggest passing the fruit platter when Margaery rang a bell.

“Time for feasting!” she announced.

Another set of double doors opened in the corner of the space, and two waiters dressed as medieval peasants carried in an entire roasted pig with an apple in its mouth.

“It’s been cooking all day! I kept checking, and the apple’s from Maidenpool just like in Chapter Ten!” Margaery beamed with pride.

Jaime happened to catch Brienne’s startled look, her eyes widening and her lips parting as she scanned the table and the girls themselves, even the partially-obscured cake on its own table.

“I hadn’t realized,” she muttered almost to herself. “All of this is really from the book, isn’t it?”

“Obvs!” Myrcy offered loudly.

“We thought about everything, every detail,” Sansa’s voice shook as she stared straight at Brienne.

“The tablecloth is just like the one in the River Lord’s hall in Chapter Three, and the cake is the end of Chapter Fourteen, because of reasons.” Margery nodded as if that made complete sense.

“I’m Quil!” Myrcy gestured to her plastic corset. “I made this myself.”

“I’m the Fool!”

Jaime didn’t recall the Fool being dressed like a showgirl.

“And I’m Maidenpool,” Sansa claimed.

 _What?_ “Sorry Sansa, I don’t understand.” He instantly regretted saying anything.

The girls looked aghast, with matching judgmental glares. .

“But you read the book!” Marg asked.

“Yes, but Maidenpool is a place.” He kept his voice as tentative as possible in the face of the rabid trio.

Sansa shrugged. “It’s okay, guys. Old people, whatevs. See, I’m a maiden, and I’m wearing sparkly blue water. Maidenpool. It’s meta.”

“You look like a sea nymph, too, Sansa.” Myrcy twisted toward Brienne. “Doesn’t she? She’s so pretty.” Back to Sansa. “You’re so pretty, Sansa!”

“No, _you’re_ so pretty!”

“You two are both hot pieces.” Marg blew air kisses then winked at Jaime on purpose.

“The pork smells delicious! Doesn’t it smell delicious?” He picked up his fork in preparation. There was no stopping Margaery anyway, but he had to keep trying, at least when Tommen was present.

“Oh my gods, I love you two so much!” Myrcy started tearing up again.

_Did teenage girls need to leak periodically or they would explode?_

“It has a face!” Tommen complained.

The waiter-peasants finished laying the pork platter in the middle of the table, and one began carving. The other poured goblets of what smelled like apple cider and set them in front of each guest. 

Since he hadn’t looked at Brienne in two or three seconds, Jaime settled his gaze on her. She had her hands folded tightly in front of her, her posture stiff, but her eyes told a different story. He didn’t know her well enough to bet on it, but he could swear she was amused.

“Is all this,” he waved his fork back and forth, “all right? It’s not too much?” His lowered his voice, though Myrcy at least would hear.

The table went completely silent as five sets of eyes fixed on Brienne. Tommen had returned to messing with his backpack, knocking his knees on the table as he squirmed.

Jaime watched as her blue eyes fixed on his. The table jolted a little from another of Tommen’s knocks. The apple in the pig’s mouth dislodged and left a greasy trail as it rolled straight towards Myrcy and her hideous-yet-lovingly-crafted costume.

The waiters were too far away, and Jaime reflexively reached for the apple with his missing hand, knocking his goblet over to add a pool of sticky cider to the table chaos. Tommen jolted the table yet again, and the stream rolled towards Brienne along with the apple that plopped right onto her lap.

No one said a word. There were plenty of gasps, but no words. Brienne looked down at her lap for a moment, then picked up the apple and brought it to her lips. She took a big bite and smiled as she chewed for a moment.

Finally, she broke the silence. “I’m not sure about the grease, but the apple is delicious.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, but Jaime was certain his was the greatest. He was ultimately responsible for this after all. He smiled widely and tried to thank her with his eyes for being a good sport. “Send me the cleaning bill,” he suggested with a nod at her black shirt.

“Of course not,” she retorted. “My manager likes me to make appearances. He can pay.”

Jaime was about to find something else inane to say to her, just to keep her talking, but Margaery interrupted.

“Isn’t Myrcy’s hair pretty? I mean, yours is this like, angelic halo of starlight, but Myrcy’s is pretty, too, right?” Margaery stared at Brienne intently.

“What?” Jaime asked in her direction, but his eyes shifted to Brienne’s hair. It _was_ very light and a little silvery. Not the Targaryen shade that looked like it could only occur in a bad wig, but maybe there was a bit of starlight there.

Myrcy piped up. “Oh, mine’s not nearly as pretty as Brienne’s, but it has some gold. Maybe I should dye it red like Sansa’s?”

“It’s very pretty, Myrcella,” Brienne offered.

Myrcy looked stunned as if she hadn’t been fishing for a compliment. Jaime almost believed her.

“Oh thank you!” she gushed. “It’s really the Lannister color. We all have it, like Uncle Jaime. His hair is prettier than mine, don’t you think?”

Jaime furrowed his brow quite fiercely. “What are you _doing_?”

Fortunately, maybe, the doors opened to admit a short, stocky, ancient woman in a mink coat and elbow-length leather gloves. She also wore a turban for reasons unknown, like the old movie stars. Olenna Tyrell, Grandmother of Nightmares. Literally and figuratively.

“Hiya, Nans!” Margaery called out.

Jaime stood as she approached, instinctively knowing he’d be hammered if he neglected the courtesy. A waiter pulled out the end chair for Olenna, and she took in the scene for a moment.

“Why is there a pig?” she finally asked.

“It’s Chapter Ten, obvs.” Margaery glared at her grandmother.

“It’s three in the afternoon. Nobody wants to eat something with a face at three.”

“But it’s Chapter—”

“Ten, I’m aware.” Olenna’s gaze landed on every person at the table in turn. “Does anyone wish to eat this pork?”

No one said yes, not even Margaery. Jaime wasn’t really hungry himself, but he wondered if the others were just too afraid to contradict Olenna. They should be.

She snapped her fingers for the waiter. “Take this abomination away and bring me that plate of cheese. And some gin.”

The waiter bowed and moved with the other to heft the massive pig back where it came.

Margaery leaned close to Olenna. “You promised not to ruin things!”

“I ruin nothing by removing the pork. Now, say _thank you, Grandmother, for the use of your suite, and the wait staff, and the food._ ”

Margaery growled. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

“Thank you,” Sansa echoed.

“Thank you,” Myrcy echoed the echo.

“And there have been no introductions.” Olenna positively stared at Brienne. “Jaime-boy, on with it!”

Jaime cleared his throat to stifle a laugh. “This is Brienne Tarth. She writes—”

“Yes, yes, I know. That’s why I wanted to meet you, dear.” Olenna’s eyes twinkled beneath heavy mascara. “You are positively singular, aren’t you?”

Brienne was back to shyness and discomfort, her shoulders hunched. “I…thank you?”

“Yes, it was obviously a compliment. I do like unique things. Where is that cheese?”

“Brienne Tarth isn’t a _thing_ , Nans!” Margaery shouted in outrage.

“Do keep your voice to a reasonable level, Margaery,” Olenna warned. “I don’t believe Ms. Tarth took my meaning incorrectly, did you?”

“Um…no?”

“Speak up! My grandchildren believe I’ve lived since the dawn of time, and I do admit to some of those years. My hearing has suffered accordingly.”

Brienne remained silent with her mouth hanging open in shock.

Jaime felt irritated by Olenna’s takeover of the party. “This doesn’t feel much like a birthday to me. What about presents?”

“What presents? This _is_ my present!” Myrcy waved happily around her, beaming at Brienne with a semi-normal expression of happiness.

Jaime cleared his throat and pulled a tiny box from his pocket. “It’s not a birthday without paper to rip. Just a token.” He slid it towards Myrcy.

She had it undone in seconds and opened the box, her grin widening as she saw what was inside. “A baby doll! You dork!” She held up the keychain he’d found with a plastic, diapered baby dangling at the end.

He shrugged but matched her smile. “Had to keep with tradition. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a car, but you can still learn to drive.”

Myrcy’s eyes suddenly glazed over. “I don’t need a car. I just need a baby doll.” She strained to lean close enough to wrap her arms around his neck.

He ruffled Myrcy’s hair as she leaned back, and he caught Brienne looking at him before she glanced away.

“Now us!” Sansa and Marg said together.

“You already did all this!” Myrcy faux-complained.

“Nonsense!” Marg shouted, standing to move to the cake table, and ducking to retrieve a fairly large package from underneath. “Here, it’s from both of us.”

She handed it to Myrcy and stood watching as it was opened. A tapestry unfolded with the paper, and Marg helped Myrcy hold it up.

“Oh gods, it’s glorious!” Myrcy sighed as she focused on the tapestry.

Margaery was far too close for him to move enough to see the front, but Myrcy turned it around for everyone to admire. It was a scene of a girl who looked like Myrcy, dressed in the same costume, and a Knight-slash-Fool on horseback as he leaned down to grip the girl’s hand.

“Sansa drew it and I had it made like this,” Marg said, shy for once.

“It’s…it’s Ian and Quil, but I’m Quil, and oh my gods you guys oh my gods!”

Jaime had to admit that it was lovely. Sansa was clearly a talented artist.  He caught Brienne smiling at it, the same way she had smiled at Tommen.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“You really think so?” Marg asked, her eyes wide and her face looking her actual age. Almost…sweet. _Nah, that wasn’t possible_.

“Don’t pander, Margaery,” Olenna growled.

“I do.” Brienne ignored the old biddy and leaned just slightly towards Myrcy. “Would you mind very much if I had one, too? To hang in my office? I can write you a check today.”

Myrcy started crying. Teenager girls really did seem to leak on a regular basis. “T…too? Oh my gods! Totally, yeah, definitely! Oh my gods we’ll be twinsies!”

“I’m going to have it made right away and we’ll bring it to you ourselves and you will never pay for anything ever!” Marg shouted. “Right Sansa?”

Sansa was slumped on the table with her face hidden by folded arms. “She thinks my art is beautiful!” she wailed as her body shook.

Myrcy snapped upright and stared at Marg with a fierce light in her eyes. “Or maybe Uncle Jaime can deliver it? We have school. And stuff. You know?”

“Oh! Oh! Totes! Yeah, Uncle Jaime will probably have to do that.” She leaned over him with her spandex-covered breasts in his face. “You wouldn’t mind, right?”

He recoiled from Margaery and was going to say that he definitely wouldn’t mind if Brienne didn’t mind, but the doors flung open for the second time to admit a very, very unwanted guest. _Joffrey._

Everyone who knew him did a double-take, having to make sure it was actually Myrcy’s older brother who waltzed in carrying a strange square box draped in black. The handle was wire.

“Happy birthday, sis,” he drawled as he approached the table and set the box down in front of Sansa. His fingers lifted a lock of her hair and tugged.

She jolted up. “Don’t touch me, psycho!”

“What are you doing here!” Myrcy screeched.

“What is he doing here!” Marg shouted.

“I’d say I’m the life of the party, but I think this one is too dead to matter.” Joff eyed the empty chair next to Sansa that was meant for Tyrion.

She immediately dunked her spoon into a bowl of dip and dumped in onto the seat. “Take it, dip-butt.”

Joff scowled, but Jaime hoped he could get rid of Joffrey before there were any real trouble. He rose to move closer in case Joff decided to torment Sansa further, but Joff moved to the other side of the table.

“I want to sit. Tommen, get up,” Joff demanded.

“Tommen, stay put,” Jaime countered.

Tommen glanced between them, knocking the table again. He peered at something on the floor and then back. “I’m going to sit in the corner and read. Joff can have my chair.”

The boy cradled his backpack as if it were full of treasure and hurried off before Jaime could stop him. Joff immediately took the vacated seat.

“Aren’t you a supercilious infant,” Olenna said casually.

Joff glared. “I am not an infant!”

“To me, nearly everyone is an infant. Don’t challenge me, infant.”

Joff hissed. Tommen also uncharacteristically hissed from his corner.

Jaime glanced at Brienne to see how she was handling this new intrusion. Her eyes seemed to project sympathy.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Myrcy growled.

“Absolutely, but mother called and told me she’d convince Grandfather to let me drive the convertible if I brought her birthday present over. He said he wouldn’t lower himself to come here.” Joff slouched back in his chair as if he were trying to look like a king on a throne.

“He can go lower himself on a toilet,” Olenna announced with pursed lips.

Joff made a show of dragging the black cloth from the box he had carried in before Jaime could find a way to defend his father and simultaneously agree with Olenna.

The box was a wire cage with a plastic bottom, and inside was a layer of wood chips and a fat, brown gerbil. There was a ribbon and card on top of the cage.

“How excellent to have a rodent on the table in my hotel,” Olenna drawled.

Myrcy had wanted a gerbil when she was Tommen’s age, not now. He removed the card and reluctantly brought it to Myrcy, keeping his hand on her shoulder as she tore it open.

Her anger quickly gave way to tears. She glared at the card and threw it down as hard as she could before she rose and started pacing behind her chair. Marg and Sansa rushed to join her.

“What has that beach cow done, Jaime-boy?” Olenna asked with real concern.

He picked up the card. It took only a second to see the damage that had been done. It read _Happy Birthday, Tommen. Love from Mother._

“Bitch,” he murmured as his tore the card in half and tossed it on the table before glancing at Myrcy who was now wrapped up in her friends’ arms.

Brienne’s quiet voice pierced his anger. “Perhaps I could read something to her, some of the sequel?” She glanced quickly at the card to indicate that she’d seen it.

At that moment, with her sympathetic blue eyes fixed on him, he thought she was the kindest person in the world. She was almost beautiful.

He parted his lips to say something, maybe that, but Joff started cackling in that awful way he had. “Who is this hideous creature?”

Another moment of complete silence. And then:

“Joffrey, you little shit!” Margaery shouted.

“You’re the Stranger’s turd!” Sansa wailed.

“Would you like me to take care of him for you, Jaime-boy?” Olenna offered with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Hater!” Myrcy screamed loud enough to break glass. “Hater! Hater! Come off anon and face me like a man!”

Marg and Sansa held her back as she tried to run towards Joff with her fingers bent into claws. Jaime thought she might actually scratch him.

And Jaime…he felt a surge of red-hot anger he tamped down in favor of icy calm. He spoke quietly despite the girls’ shrieking, but it was not a good kind of quiet. “Joffrey, apologize to Ms. Tarth.”

“I will not.” Joff scoffed.

“Apologize, or I will make you apologize,” he gritted.

Joff grinned. “How could you? You’ve only got one hand, Uncle. You couldn’t even defend yourself when you had two!”

“Joffrey, that’s enough,” Jaime warned, for the last time.

“What’s the matter, too close to the mark? You couldn’t even stop that guy from mugging Uncle Tyrion the circus freak without losing a limb. Pathetic.”

“There were three men!” Jaime immediately regretted the outburst.

“Enough of this,” Olenna interrupted in with a lady-of-the-manor tone. “Joffrey, this is my hotel, and as such I may choose who remains within its walls. I do not choose to allow you. Depart at once or I will call security, and if you argue with them, I will have you arrested.”

“You wouldn’t dare! I’ll call Grandfa—”

“I am Olenna Tyrell and Tywin Lannister can wipe my ass for all I care. Tell him that yourself.” She snapped her fingers, and the waiters appeared. “Get him out of here.”

Joffrey stood and brushed imaginary dust from his jacket. “Don’t touch me, I’m leaving. Pathetic.”

He marched off, but Tommen, who had been so quiet in his corner, darted up behind him with a black and white lump in his arms. “Attack!” he shouted.

He threw the lump at Joff’s back, and the lump turned into Ser Pounce. The cat extended his claws, digging into Joff’s flesh. He screamed like a baby.

“I can haz Joffburger!” Myrcy shouted.

Joff flailed about, trying to force the cat off his back but succeeded only in tripping the waiter who fell into the table, knocking the gerbil cage to the carpet and causing the tiny wire door to burst open.

Jaime lunged to grab the gerbil, but was tripped by the second waiter moving to restrain Joffrey. He tumbled sideways back into his chair and took a second to untangle his legs so he faced forward towards Brienne and her startled eyes. He found himself trapped by them, sinking into them. It was all he felt equipped to do at the moment, so he just stared. Her eyes were beautiful, and calm, and a safe harbor in the chaos.

“Oh my gods, Ser Pounce is eating the birthday gerbil!”

He reluctantly ended his stare to see Sansa jumping up and down and pointing across the room.

Ser Pounce had the gerbil in his mouth, but it was clearly still alive and squirming. Tommen shouted at the cat, and the gerbil dropped, darting off somewhere with Ser Pounce hot on its heels. Tommen chased Ser Pounce. Myrcy ran to chase Tommen. Marg started throwing cheese cubes at Joffrey who still struggled with the first waiter and clutched his shoulder with a blood-covered hand. Sansa rescued the tapestry and stood on a chair. A waiter grabbed the birthday cake and attempted to keep it safe.

The doors opened for the third time, and Myrcy darted over to slam them as the gerbil sensed a means of escape. Tyrion stood just inside, mouth wide open and eyes glittering with what Jaime knew was complete glee. Joff screamed at Tyrion to get him a lawyer and a surgeon so he wouldn’t be a deformed freak like both his uncles. Tyrion slapped Joff. Margaery tripped the waiter carrying the cake, and the poor peasant man lost his balance, leaning too far forward. The cake landed straight on Olenna Tyrell.

Jaime took it all in and decided the best way to deal with this madness was to cross his arms on the table and bury his face in them. His left cheek landed on his fork.

He sat there and he waited for something not insane to happen, or maybe to wake up because this could not possibly be happening.

He sat there and he saw Brienne’s face behind his eyelids, and then he heard her voice filter through the chaos. He wasn’t sure if he were daydreaming, but he heard her tell Sansa to fix the gerbil cage, and Tyrion to get Joff out, and a waiter to call security, and the other waiter to stop slipping in the icing on the carpet around Olenna and to call the cleaning crew, and Margaery to help Myrcy get the gerbil, and Olenna to remove her mink coat that had trapped the chunks of cake in its hairs, and Tommen to restrain Ser Pounce. _Why was Ser Pounce even there?_

Things grew quiet. Things were happening. He felt someone looming over him.

“Mr. Lannister? Everything’s going to be all right.”

It was her voice. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and tilted his head way, way up to see her blue eyes, and he didn’t stop staring.

“My name is Jaime.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikki's super-beta-powers were seriously at work here. As a reward for wading through this monster of a chapter, go read the smut she just posted! Amazeballs. 
> 
> Tomorrow, the final chapter. *sniff*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the party insanity, the fangirls reflect on their mistakes, resolve to fix them, and plot how to witness their real-life OTP finally interact. Hot Uncle Jaime has moves. Brienne creatively uses staples.

 

“How did that even happen?” Sansa asked between watery hiccups.

“How did we _let_ that happen?” Margaery shoveled another spoonful of Fudge Brownie Caramel Turtle Cherry Mocha King’s Ravens Fan Favorite flavor ice cream into her mouth.

“We ruined everything, you guys! No things! No to all the things! There isn’t going to be a journey, and there isn’t going to be a real life O-T-P, and Uncle Jaime and Brienne are going to be sad for ever and die alone because we messed up their soul-mate meeting, and there aren’t going to be tall awkward babies!” Myrcy cried as she flopped back on her bed.

She hadn’t even grasped how bad the party had gotten until Ser Pounce took a chunk out of Joffrey’s shoulder and tried to eat her mother’s birthday gerbil. It had been a blur of panic after that. It was only the majestic queen of love and beauty, Brienne Tarth, who had somehow restored order to the chaos. Uncle Tyrion had spoken to Uncle Jaime, had shaken hands with Brienne, then bundled her and Sansa and Margaery and Tommen and Ser Pounce out of the hotel and into his car and brought them to her house and told them to write apology letters to basically everyone.

At least he hadn’t blamed them for everything. It wasn’t their fault that Margaery’s grandmother provoked people. No one could have known evil Joff would appear, and he always brought haterness. Uncle Tyrion was downstairs with Tommen who was definitely getting in trouble for teaching Ser Pounce to attack. _How do you teach a cat to attack, anyway?_

But now things would never be the way they had been, never ever again. Brienne Tarth would never want to see them. There would probably be a section in the acknowledgements of the sequel that said, _Thank you to all the fangirls for supporting me, except for Myrcy, Margaery, and Sansa. Not them._

And Uncle Jaime…she didn’t even know where he’d gone. Myrcy cried even louder and felt like she were going to puke. She’d let him down so badly when she’d just wanted him to fall in love with an otherworldly goddess of wonder and unicorns.

Was that too much to ask? _Was it?_

“Too bad we’re not at my place,” Margaery mumbled around her spoon. “I’ve got whipped-cream flavored vodka in my closet.”

“I think I need that right now,” Myrcy agreed.

“I just want to die and be dead,” Sansa wailed.

A knock sounded at the door. Myrcy scrambled to fling it open, hoping it would be Uncle Jaime so she could just cry into his shoulder and tell him how sorry she was that they’d scared his future wife away.

It was Uncle Tyrion and Tommen. And Ser Pounce.

“Tommen has something to say to you, Myrcy,” Uncs Number Two said with a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “And he didn’t have the chance to give you his present.”

Myrcy had to look down at them since they were both about the same height. At least Uncs Number Two didn’t seem angry anymore.

“Um, sure. What is it Tom?”

Her brother peered up at her and then glanced at her friends. “I am very sorry to have allowed Ser Pounce,” he held up his cat and displayed him at each person, “to learn how to attack and to make him attack evil Joff and make your birthday worser. I told Uncle Tyrion it was already worser, but I understand that I behaved badly, and I’m very sorry.”

Myrcy smiled and wiped her drying tears. “It’s okay, Tom. It’s not really your fault. It’s ours. And definitely Joff’s.” She reached over to ruffle his hair.

Tyrion handed Myrcy the tapestry and a small, lumpy package since Tom’s arms were full of cat.

“I hope you like it,” Tom said shyly.

Myrcy handed the tapestry to Sansa, who placed it on Myrcy’s pillow and wailed again, before Myrcy began tearing open her brother’s gift. Inside the paper was a pocket-sized stuffed cat with Ser Pounce’s black and white coloring.

She wanted to laugh, but she’d save that for later. “Oh, thank you Tom! I _love_ it!”

Tom’s face lit up. “You can put it in your bag for school, and it will protect you like Ser Pounce.”

Myrcy nodded, understanding that Ser Pounce was Tommen’s Brienne Tarth, his hero. She bent down to hug him properly, and she even gave Ser Pounce a kiss on his furry cat head.

“You’re my favorite!” she whispered in her brother’s ear.

Tommen beamed. She was so glad they both got to live here with Uncle Jaime who never complained about cat hair or ink spots on her sheets, and never forgot to pick them up, and never yelled at her for hiding the wine.

“All right, Tom, time to get you to bed. Girls, did you finish your notes?” Uncle Tyrion raised one brow, trying to be all severe, but it didn’t really work.

They nodded in unison.

“Good.” He sighed. “Tommen told me the whole torrid tale. I know _most_ of it wasn’t your fault.” Then he narrowed his eyes and looked at each of them. “And I know what you were trying to do. My brother might be oblivious, but I am _not_.”

Myrcy looked down at her bare toes, nails painted in Quil blue, just a little embarrassed.

Tyrion wrapped an arm around Tommen’s shoulder and guided him out, turning back for a second to hold out a pretty silver box. “Your Ms. Tarth was quite nice. I like her. She said this was for you.”

Myrcy couldn’t even properly squee or cry or both before Tommen interrupted.

He looked over at Tyrion. “Are you talking about how Uncle Jaime likes that nice, tall lady at the party?”

“What?” Myrcy clutched the silver box to her chest and screeched, a sound immediately echoed by her til-now-silent friends.

“Well, he was smiling at her all the time, and his eyes got all crinkly. He liked her.” Tommen nodded.

Uncle Tyrion started chuckling. “Seems you were so fixated on working your plan you failed to realize you may not need one.”

All the things ticked through Myrcy’s head…every interaction she’d caught when Uncle Jaime was near Brienne Tarth. There were smiles, and blushes, and staring. “Oh my gods,” she whispered.

Margaery’s ice cream spoon plunked to the floor. Sansa sucked in a loud breath.

“Uncle Tyrion, where is Uncle Jaime?” she asked in the absolute most cazsh voice she possibly could.

He flashed her that look that said _really, Myrcy, really?_ “I do believe he’s off _fixing_ things.”

He shut her door behind him, and he left with Tommen and Ser Pounce, and the second their footsteps faded down the hall, Myrcy leapt back on her bed, causing the ice cream to join the spoon on the floor.

“Marg! Where is the video?” she whisper-shouted.

“But the box!” Sansa wailed.

“It can wait for like five seconds or ten, okay?”

Marg nearly fell on her face as she climbed over her friends to grab her huge purse. “Here! I got the vid!”

“Oh my gods, was Tommen right? What did he mean? Did he mean what I think he meant or what? What are the meanings?” Sansa wailed.

Myrcy grabbed Marg’s phone and connected it to her laptop. Uncle Jaime had warned Marg that there wasn’t to be any recording of the party, but _reasons_. They hadn’t watched it before because of the crazy.

Marg had propped her phone in the fruit bowl facing the end of the table where Myrcy had sat. Myrcy fast-forwarded through tons of footage until it got to the part where Uncle Jaime was sitting facing Brienne, and then they saw it…a little glance between them, a tiny smile and a big blush.

“I can’t even,” Sansa breathed.

“It’s real. The O-T-P is real.” Marg went into dream mode and stared into space.

“Now kiss,” Myrcy whispered at the screen.

They found all the good parts, the frames when Uncle Jaime kept glancing at Brienne when he thought she wasn’t looking, and when Brienne stared at his hair for too long when Myrcy had baited them, and how she blushed when she looked at him, and when all the chaos happened and they just looked into each other’s eyes for like, ever and ever.

“We could make vids of this vid,” Sansa hiccupped.

“A supercut. With music.” Marg started humming her favorite song about a bear going downtown.

“Oh my gods, you guys, Uncle Tyrion said Uncle Jaime was out _fixing_ things! He’s definitely not spending time with your Grandmother, Marg, so who else is there?”

“Oh gods, they’re banging!” Marg stood up on the bed and clutched a pillow to her chest. “They’re banging, they’re banging! Yeah, hot Uncle Jaime, you _fix_ that up all good!”

“Marg!”

“You said you wanted them to!”

Myrcy gave up. “I do! But I don’t think he’d do that so soon. He’s all romantic. Oh gods, he might have taken her to dinner with candles and cheesecake!”

“I want to draw that!” Sansa scrambled for her sketchbook.

“I just want to see it!” Myrcy grabbed another pillow and hugged it to control the feels. “It’s not fair that we don’t get to see. It was our idea!”

“So much unfair,” Marg muttered, plopping back down.

Sansa looked up from her sketch. “The box?”

Myrcy hadn’t forgotten, obvs, but it was _too much_ to think about what Brienne Tarth might have given her. A set of promo bookmarks? A signed cover card? Whatever is was, she knew she didn’t deserve it.

“Here, Myrc, we’ll open it together, yeah?” Marg clasped her hand and smiled, and Sansa joined in.

Three sets of fingers grabbed the end of the silver ribbon wound around the box, and pulled. Myrcy’s hands shook as she lifted the lid, leaning against her friends.

A fold of tissue covered the box’s contents, and a small notecard rested on top. Myrcy read what Brienne wrote.

“For Myrcella on your sixteenth birthday. Thank you for showing such love for my little tale, and I hope you enjoy a glimpse of things to come. Yours, Brienne Tarth.”

Sansa started weeping as Myrcy unfolded the tissue to reveal a parchment scroll bound with a piece of leather.

“Ohmygodsohmygodsohmygods,” Myrcy whispered.

She lifted the parchment from the box and held it out in front of her so tears wouldn’t stain it, pulling the leather off and unrolling the parchment. It was covered in letters obviously handwritten with a quill. A little paper was clipped to the top, and Myrcy started with that:

“Quil has been shot with a crossbow bolt and struggles to breathe as Ian desperately rides with her to seek help. She faces him on the horse as he holds her upright, and their clothes stick together with her blood.” Myrcy stopped reading as she started choking on tears.

“Just set it down, we’ll read together,” Marg suggested shakily.

“Wait,” Sansa muttered as she unfolded the tapestry next to the parchment.

They lay in a row on their stomachs, Myrcy and Marg using one hand each to keep the parchment open, with Sansa in the middle.

 _Ian clutched Quil’s limp body to his chest, weaving his fingers in strands of her long hair as he pushed Lady Jest faster._ Quil could not die. _Life had become very simple in less than a single day; his quest to find the dauphine, his oath to keep his brother’s secret…they didn’t matter anymore. Life was Quil’s hot, thin breath against his neck, her chilled fingers clutching the folds of his tunic._

_He felt a jolt as she woke up. That was good, he thought, but he knew not to let hope poison his thinking. He slowed his horse and finally stopped so Quil wouldn’t injure herself further if her head slipped from the motion._

_“Do you hear my voice, Quil? Please, tell me.” The raw words pushed through his lips like daggers._

_She rolled her head painfully, just enough to meet his gaze. “I always hear your voice.” She coughed blood onto his neck. “I hear you in my dreams.”_

_“I will not allow you to die!” he whispered into the creeping darkness. Her fragile bones felt as if they would snap._

_She smiled as if she felt no fear. “Do you remember the baths? When you kissed me?”_

_“It will be the only thing I remember at the moment of my death.”_

_“Then kiss me again, and I will try not to die.”_

_He dropped Lady Jest’s reigns and cradled Quil in his arms, lowering his face just enough to brush his lips against hers. He tasted her blood on his skin. He tasted her dreams._

Myrcy’s room went completely silent. Sansa was the first to cry, and it signaled an outpouring of fangirl weeping stronger than any spell the room had yet seen.

“Oh my gods, what _is_ this? How? Why? I’m not alive!” Myrcy wailed.

“Tell me she isn’t going to die! TELL ME!” Marg shrieked.

“I even can’t even. I can’t!” Sansa wailed.

“Oh my gods, you guys, this is actually from Book Two. Like _really_! She gave us words!” Myrcy wept and hung her head over the edge of bed so her hair grazed the floor, strands falling in the now-melted ice cream.

“She gave _you_ words! Your birthday!” Sansa reminded in a wail.

“No, it’s all of us. She knew we’d all read it.”

“I just want her to be _happy_!” Sansa joined Myrcy in her hanging position. The blood rushing to the head somehow helped with the feels.

“She’s going to be happy, dammit! Hot Uncle Jaime is going to make her _so_ happy, but I wanna see!” Marg hopped up on her knees on the mattress.

“The parchment!” Myrcy jolted upright and immediately fell back down in a wave of dizziness.

Marg managed to collect the precious jewel made of words and re-rolled it, placing it back into the silver box which she set on an end table. She adopted her sneaky look. “Well…there might be a way to see this through. Maybe.”

Sansa’s head popped up. “Spill immediately!”

“Grandmother is hosting this event thing for some charity for limping people. It’s in a few days. I can get her to invite hot Uncle Jaime and Brienne, and we can watch them together. At least we’ll get to see _something_!”

“A charity for limping people? Really, Marg?” Myrcy rolled her eyes.

“Fine, fine, for whatever Willas has. Muscular damage something. Or is it prosthetics? Can’t remember, but that’s not the point!”

“How do you not remember your own brother’s stuff, Marg? His leg was crushed in a polo match,” Sansa huffed.

“Oh yeah. Totes.”

“Well, if it’s prosthetics, that’s the perfect excuse to invite my one-handed Uncle!” Myrcy prodded.

“True! I’ll find out, but I’ll make it happen. It’s at Grandmother’s house, all fancy and stuff. I’m not supposed to be there, but we can sneak around in the gardens and peak through windows.”

“We could wear all black!” Sansa suggested.

“Yes! This is happening!” Marg clapped her hands together. “I’m calling Grandmother right away, and then we’d better make a game-plan. Can’t let what happened today happen again!”

“Okay, guys, we need to plan this way better and then we need to read the _words_ like two hundred thousand more times.” Myrcy grabbed a notebook and started a task list.

“Three hundred million.” Sansa sighed and stared at the silver box.

“I bet once Ian gets Quil some help and she’s all recovered and they’re on some quiet isle or something, that’s when they bang.” Marg nodded to herself.

* * *

 

The Tyrell Mansion was nearly as large as the Lannister’s, though the color scheme was an array of rose shades rather than red and gold. Jaime had only been inside twice to pick up Myrcy, and both those times he’d waited in a side foyer, not the enormous vaulted space beyond the front doors.

His tie felt too tight, and the stiff black suit he wore made him long for jeans and his favorite worn plaid shirt. This lifestyle felt foreign after several years away from it. He wished he could forget how Olenna Tyrell had convinced him to attend her benefit gala, but it had been a startlingly direct attack.

She’d simply phoned him the day after Myrcy’s disastrous party and had commanded as she always did. “ _Jaime-boy, you must come to my gala day after next. Cocktail attire. No synthetic fabrics. My granddaughter seems to feel the need to meddle in your love life and has asked me to invite both you and that marvelous Brienne Tarth in what I can only assume to be a sorry matchmaking attempt_.”

Jaime had tried to interject, but Olenna was having none of it.

“ _Don’t be an idiot, Lannister. I sat at that table and watched you nearly crawl out of your skin to be near her. Life is short, boy. Well, not my life, of course. I plan to live forever. Come to my gala. She will be there, I promise you, and do set yourselves in order so I don’t have to be plagued by Margaery’s weeping over Ms. Tarth’s supposed glory and loneliness any longer_.”

“I already spoke to Brienne after the party!” Jaime rushed out just to make himself seem less pathetic.

Silence for a moment. “ _And are you satisfied with the result?_ ”

Jaime scrubbed his eyes. He was definitely _not_ satisfied. Brienne had been the kindest woman alive that day, and once she’d managed to dispel the chaos and Tyrion had come over to say he was taking the kids home, and she’d sent a beautifully-wrapped gift for Myrcy along with him, he’d blurted out the worst pick up line imaginable.

 _Want to drink some caffeine out of this place_? he’d asked so eloquently.

But she’d said yes. He’d been elated, not able to keep a grin off his face despite feeling mortified for exposing her to the insanity of the day.

They wandered out of the Tyrell hotel and down the street, stopping at the first coffee shop they found, and they’d sat there for hours drinking too much coffee before switching to tea, and eating a dinner of boxed sandwiches and cookies. She was fascinating. She’d started talking more openly after a while, telling him about growing up on an island, and how she started writing, and why she loved epic poetry. He’d told her about Tyrion, the loss of his hand, Tommen and Ser Pounce, and why he thought Myrcella loved Brienne’s book so much. He’d told what he thought of the book.

She’d blushed until he wanted to glide his fingers over the red stains on her smooth skin or the plumpness of her lower lip, and she’d lifted those crazy blue eyes up to captivate him.

Then it had grown so late that he knew it was over. He had to get back to Tommen in case the boy had a night terror, and Tyrion had his own life. He wasn’t a babysitter.

They’d parted, and he thought she might even have been as reluctant as he. And then he’d screwed up beyond belief. He’d walked away without telling her how much he’d enjoyed himself, or how he thought her eyes were beautiful. He’d forgotten to tell her that he wanted to do it all again, only better, and really ask her out. He hadn’t even given her his number. Or kissed her. Gods, he’d wanted to kiss her.

So he’d responded to Olenna. “No, I’m not satisfied.”

“ _The gala begins at eight. I expect punctuality.”_ She’d hung up, and now he stood in the entry, watching a hundred people float from one enormous room to another in their sparkling cocktail dresses and expensive suits. Waiters balanced trays of bite-sized food and flutes of champagne. He could see where Margaery got her flair.

He moved into the largest room where a huge white piano loomed in one corner, a tuxedoed man perched on its bench as he played quiet nocturnes. The air stunk of money.

A waiter passed him in his corner opposite the piano, and he grabbed some champagne, wishing it were something stronger. He’d chosen the location so he could see anyone entering the room. Surely he’d spot Brienne. Even if she didn’t wear heels, she’d tower over almost everyone.

It had to be pushing nine, and he still hadn’t spotted her. If Olenna hadn’t assured him of Brienne’s attendance, he might have thought she’d decided not to come, but once the old lady spoke something aloud, it was law. He had fended off social climbers who recognized his face or his stump, and spent the long minutes planning what he would say to Brienne, how he would apologize for being a moron. Now he stood, partially obscured by a potted fern, thinking about how odd Myrcy had been behaving since the party.

She and her clone-friends were even more inseparable than usual, and Myrcy would barely speak to him when the opportunity arose. She’d adopt a shy look and dart away, or just stand there grinning. She hadn’t even told him what Brienne had given her in that silver box, just muttering something about telling him later when it was the right time. _Whatever that meant._

His thoughts strayed back to Brienne. It had taken him too long to realize his interest in her, but once the revelation came it rooted in his chest with a vengeance until he could barely blink without seeing her freckled face and wondering what her skin would taste like.

That’s when she appeared in the archway, her shoulders hunched and her blonde hair falling smoothly to her chin with one side tucked behind her ear. She moved further inside and began skirting the wall towards him, though he didn’t think she’d seen him yet since she barely looked up from the floor.

He caught sight of her long dress and sucked in a breath. It was blue. Darker than her eyes, and her skin glowed from the contrast. The fabric cascaded over her like water, not showing much, but her exposed collarbone and the length of her neck begged him to stare.

Jaime left his champagne flute in the pot of the fern in the corner and inched his way toward her.

* * *

 

Brienne wanted to be anywhere _but_ this gala. She’d been one-hundred-percent correct in her previous assessment of influential families and their demands. Give in to the Lannisters, the Tyrells came next...

It was an excuse. She wasn’t there to appease that domineering Tyrell matriarch, though it had been that domineering Tyrell matriarch who had personally called her to explain that _Jaime Lannister was being an idiot of the first order and needed to discuss matters important to the future._

Whose future? His? Myrcella’s? Maybe he wanted to arrange an internship for his niece. All Brienne had known when she’d hung up was that she wanted to see Jaime again and didn’t care if that happened in a dingy coffee shop or at Olenna Tyrell’s terrifying gala.

The long blue dress Goodwin had sent over itched. She felt ridiculous, and a few of the staples she’d used to close the long slit in the fabric scratched her leg. What _had_ Goodwin been thinking?

She paused in the enormous archway. A delicately-featured woman with perfect hair and makeup sneered at her. A man looked up appraisingly, but she could tell he wasn’t impressed. Nothing she wasn’t used to for her entire life, but she felt her blush take over every inch of exposed skin, and she stared at the floor as she skirted the wall of the room. Perhaps some air on the balcony would help until she could spot Jaime.

He hadn’t looked at her like that man. She blushed more, and ran right into him and his perfectly-fitted suit and beautiful hair. She wasn’t wearing heels, so they were almost the same height. She stared at him in shock with a bit of panic bubbling up inside. _Hadn’t she wanted to make nice and be friends with him?_ There was no reason to be so nervous. Especially not when she watched a smile begin at the corner of his lips and grow to consume his face. Nobody had ever smiled at her like that.

He didn’t say anything though, just smiled for a long time until he held out his hand and waited.

She stared at his smooth skin. She took it. Her fingers fit perfectly between his and heat bloomed between their palms, and he kept grinning before pulling her further along the wall. A fresh wave of guests pressed in, leaving them nowhere to go but a corner occupied only by a tall fern. He reached the wall and spun around without letting go of her hand.

She did run into him this time, and jumped when he wrapped his right arm around her to hold her in place. She didn’t step back, though her heart beat frantically.

“How did Olenna get you here?” he asked.

She ducked her head in embarrassment and felt her blush deepen. “I don’t want to say.”

“Please?” he furrowed his brow, as if he were worried.

“She said…” Brienne glanced away to look at anything but him. “She said you wanted to talk about the future. She said you were an idiot and I should be kind and come listen to you.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “How dare that old harridan call me an idiot! Or guilt you into coming here if you didn’t want to.”

“Oh…no, I did want to.” She grimaced at her inability to communicate. “I mean, I wanted to see you.”

“Did you?” He grinned slyly.

“Yes.”

“Well then, I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, that’s what I wanted to tell you.”

Her eyes fixed on his and widened, and she didn’t try to move back. “I don’t understand.”

Jaime laughed and tightened his arm around her. She wasn’t sure he was aware that his stump moved in circles against her back, over the silky fabric of her dress, but she didn’t want him to stop.

He went on, “I’m sorry for letting you go home that night without telling you I wanted to see you again.”

At least he _did_ want to spend time with her. She felt a surprising amount of relief at knowing this, but her heart continued to race from heat of his body, and from a small hope that he might actually be interested in her. She glanced at the floor. “You do?”

“Of course. I took you on a date only a college student would think was a good idea, but it was the best date of my life, and I failed to tell you that.”

 _What?_ That hadn’t been a date already, it was…she didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t have been a date. _Could it?_

He brought his fingers to her chin, gently encouraging her to look at him.

She shook her head, trying so hard to keep herself calm and not mistake what he wanted. “I…I didn’t know it was a date.” She blushed harder.

“What?” he scoffed. “How you could not know it was a date?”

She struggled to explain and ended up with a whisper that made her sound slow. “Why would someone like you go on a date with me?”

She looked in his eyes, feeling exposed, and started to pull away, but he cupped his palm around her neck to stop her escape. His green eyes had gold flecks in them she hadn’t noticed before. They were warm and fixed on her as if nobody else were even in the great room. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he _was_ interested. _He hadn’t stopped touching her, so that had to mean something?_

She thought he’d feel the pulsing in her veins for sure as he drew closer, paused, closer again. He pressed his lips against hers. It was tentative. He couldn’t find the right angle at first because she was too tall, but for once in her life, she didn’t care. She moved her lips hesitantly. His body pressed flush against hers, his kiss changing as if he might devour her.

Her stiff arms relaxed from their places at her sides. Her shoulders gave in, then her hands as she lifted them to skate over his chest, over his madly beating heart to rest on his shoulders. The tip of her index finger grazed his neck above his collar. She felt him tense and pull her so close she didn’t think there was even space for air between them, lighting her on fire with the feel of so much of him at once.

She opened for his tongue when he silently begged, and then it was all a tangle of hands, and arms, and mouths, and heavy breathing, and light-headed lust.

His hand moved from her neck down her side, spanning her thick waist, down further to a thigh that heated quickly at the contact. His movement stopped as he jerked his hand away.

She shamelessly pressed forward as he stepped back, but he nipped her lips once more and pulled away. He held up his hand and she saw a burgeoning balloon of red on the tip of his thumb, like the prick of a needle.

She blushed violently all over again and ducked her head into his shoulder. “I think that’s my fault.”

“How?” He bent his head to graze his nose along the curve of her neck. She was quickly becoming addicted to the pressure of his body against hers.

“I stapled my dress,” she answered with a nervous laugh.

“What? Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders but didn’t unwind her arms from around him. “Goodwin sent it. It had a big slit up to the thigh, so I stapled it.”

His laughter attracted the attention of guests close enough to hear. He sucked the blood off his thumb and took her hand.

“Come on.” He led her through the crazy crowd back towards the room’s entrance.

“Where are we going?”

“To find a staple remover.”

* * *

 

“I can’t see anything at all! There are too many people!” Myrcy complained as she stood on tiptoe beneath the window to the great room. There must be at least a hundred guests inside.

“What if you stood on my shoulders?” Sansa offered, huddled against the cold stone in her black jeans and sweater.

“I could try to get a waiter to film inside,” Margaery mused, her black leather leggings and jacket squeaking every time she moved.  

“If you want to make out with a waiter, you don’t need an excuse, Marg.” Myrcy started hopping up and down to catch more glimpses, and to keep warm since her black tights under black shorts and a black t-shirt were probably not great choices for outdoor night surveillance.

“I know. Just trying to kill two birds and all that.”

“Well now, what are you girls doing out here in the dead of night dressed like ninjas?” A soft voice sounded from behind them.

They turned as one, and Myrcy breathed a sigh of relief when it was only Marg’s older brother Willas. He leaned on a cane that Marg had asked Sansa to paint with song lyrics, and kept pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. At least it was Willas and not Loras who would have teased them mercilessly.

“Hey, Wills!” Marg began loudly before moderating her tone. “We’re just…looking for something.”

“You’re spying on Nans’ guests. Who in particular?” He sniffed a few times and reached into his pocket for his allergy inhaler.

“Myrcy’s hot uncle and our favorite author. She’s a tall special snowflake of tallness. We can’t find them. They might be off banging somewhere.” Marg shrugged and squeaked.

“You mean you _hope_ they’re off banging somewhere.”

“That’s what I said.”

“A tall woman and your uncle…hmm. I might have seen them.” Willas ran his fingers through his thick hair.  

“What?!?” Myrcy and Sansa exclaimed together.

Marg stepped forward, squeaked, and grabbed her brother’s arms almost violently. “Where, Willas? _Where_?”

“Gods, Marg, let go before I have claw marks. In the library!”

Marg released her grip and brushed Willas’ jacket as if that made up for her attack. “Sorry, Wills.” She turned back to them. “To the library!”

She squeaked away with Myrcy hot on her feels, but they stopped when Sansa hadn’t joined them. She just stood there exchanging awkward glances with Willas.

“Sansa!” Marg called back.

“Coming!” She stared at the grass. “Bye Willas.” She rushed to them as Myrcy watched Willas’ gaze trail after her.

No matter now, to the library!

They speed-raced the length of the estate to the corner room, paneled in dark wood and filled with rose-colored armchairs and old books. Marg said it was only used by Willas and their grandmother’s assistant when she needed somewhere to hide.

The windows were a little lower than those on the other side of the house, the layer of mulch right underneath offering a shelf to stand on. They each gripped their fingers on the ledge and craned their heads to see inside.

“Oh my gods!” Myrcy whispered.

“How is this happening?” Sansa quietly wailed.

“It’s real, you guys! The O-T-P is real!” Marg said dreamily.

The room wasn’t lit very well, just by a lamp on the giant wood desk. Brienne Tarth perched on the desk’s edge, leaning back on her hands as she looked down at Uncle Jaime who knelt at her feet. He was messing with her dress, his stump caught up in the blue fabric as he picked at it with something in his hand.

“She looks glorious! I’m going to draw her like this,” Sansa planned.

“Her lips are swollen. I can tell,” Marg noted. “Now kiss!”

Myrcy said nothing. She just watched her uncle peer at the dress and glance back at Brienne every two seconds with an odd smile on his face. She hadn’t seen that smile before and could only guess what it meant, but she didn’t think she was wrong.

“What’s he doing, Myrcy?” Sansa asked.

“No idea.”

“Did she snag her dress and he’s trying to fix it?” Marg added.

“No, see? He’s picking something from it.” Myrcy pointed at the tool in his hand.

“Come on, come on, bang already!”

“Marg! We are not staying here for that!”

“Ha! You didn’t say ew!” Marg lightly slapped Myrcy’s shoulder.

“Fine. I didn’t.” Myrcy turned back to the scene inside.

Uncle Jaime seemed to snarl, then he threw the tool he was using on the floor and ripped Brienne’s dress up to her thigh.

“Oh my gods!”

“Bang!”

“He did _not_ just do that! I can’t even!”

Myrcy watched Brienne’s face. She seemed shocked, but she started laughing, and then she blushed as Uncle Jaime ran his hand up her leg. She was shorter for once since she sat on the desk.

“Maybe we should go,” Myrcy said hesitantly, not really wanting to but knowing she should.

“Not yet. Almost,” Marg insisted.

“I’m drawing everything.” Sansa sucked in a deep breath and coughed because of the night air.

Uncle Jaime smiled that smile again, and then he kissed Brienne right on the lips in this long, lingering way until she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and plastered her body against his. There was even tongue. So much tongue.

Myrcy let go of the ledge and turned her back to the stone, sinking into a crouch. Sansa joined her. Marg waited until it sounded like the desk lamp fell to the floor, and then she very reluctantly sat with them.

“It happened, you guys,” Myrcy said in awe.

“We made an O-T-P. We made it ourselves,” Sansa mumbled as she cupped her cheeks between her palms.

“They’re banging above my head. I’m dying.” Marg started crying.

Once she let it out, they all did. They huddled together in a puddle of feels.

“What do we do now?” Myrcy wondered between hiccoughs.

“Fic and art,” Sansa said. “And vids. Oh gods, we have to make a video for the wedding!”

“Who knows when that will be!” Marg shouted before she slapped her hand over her mouth.

“Not that long. Uncle Jaime will act fast,” Myrcy predicted.

“Tall awkward babies!” Sansa wailed.

Victory tasted like triple chocolate cake. They had succeeded, but now they had no focus. Myrcy felt that fictional O-T-Ps just weren’t going to hack it anymore, not after witnessing the fruits of their labor in the form of swollen lips and cute smiles.

But maybe…

Myrcy scrambled over to Marg on Sansa’s other side. Sansa was too busy crying into her hands to notice. Marg twisted to see what was up as Myrcy moved close to whisper in her ear.

“Sansa and Willas…” she said, leaning back to see Marg’s reaction.

That little smirk appeared at the corner of Marg’s lips, the one that quickly turned into a huge cat-like grin.

“You don’t say.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still can't catch up with comment replies, but I feel so warm and fuzzy that you all liked this fic, however over-the-top it's been! I love this fandom. 
> 
> The mostest thanks to Mikki for fixing this baby up and being a beta extraordinaire. She got all these chapters done at super speed and put up with my tardiness like a boss. 
> 
> Now I'm going to drink and cry in a corner because Appreciation Week is over and I miss it. All the pretties!


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